


The Careless Things 'Verse

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:32:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're careless things, these touches that don't go anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They're careless things, these touches that don't go anywhere. Nowhere but under the skin, through their flesh and into the marrow. They sizzle in blood that shares the same code. And sometimes, they linger in the dark after-thoughts, heavy with what-ifs and just-maybes. The curve of a palm around the base of a neck, the sift of fingers through too-long hair, a forehead pressed just briefly, but hot, against a temple.

They're the kinds of touches that can be explained away, as brotherly affection or accidents or the bi-product of too much time spent in too-close quarters. And they can fool their dad, fool Bobby and even fool the rangy motel clerk who quirks a sardonic brow at two teenage boys who know little about personal space. But they can't fool themselves.

Too soon it will get out of hand, they know. When the touches last seconds longer, slide under the cuff of a shirt to sneak a taste of skin, lean in and press until there's no air between them for four or five heartbeats until they're drawing away again.

They don't speak of it. The way it's going, they could slide right into each other, never uttering a syllable about it. And maybe that's better, because the loaded silences make each brush and caress a little more intense. As if they weren't crossing the lines of taboo far enough, that stone wall of quiet makes it all the more risky.

Too often they're alone, left to mind each other while their father runs off to play hero. And it's on such a night that Dean stands in the open door of the bathroom. The room itself is dark, but the burnt yellow of the bulb over the sink slices through the black and falls right over the bed Sam is sprawled out on. It's mid-July in Texas and the air conditioner makes a labored hum and rattle, not cooling the room even remotely.

When the door had opened, Sam pulled and bunched a pillow over his face, shielding his night-adjusted eyes from the burst of brightness. So, he doesn't see the way Dean's gaze drags over him. Unobserved, he can look his fill, like he never can in the light of day. And, god, does he want to look.

Fifteen and the lines of Sam's body have lengthened, slight swells of muscle just pushing up at his skin. For what's felt like forever, but is honestly only the space of a few months, Dean has wanted to pull his hands over the ridges of Sam's ribs. Further down he could press the heels of his palms into that slight dip of a V that points like an arrow into the waistband of loose boxers.

" _Dean_ ," Sam's whine is muffled by the pillow. "Shut out the light and go to bed."

Dean contemplates Sam's demand; considers obeying like he would any other night. But something's different tonight, something roiling up in his lower belly, flushing his skin and he's already half-hard at the notion that he might let his urges carry him past all of the self-recriminations he's built up. So he does.

Instead of shutting out the light, Dean pushes away from the doorframe and ambles over to the foot of Sam's bed. He stares down and Sam's all splayed out in the slanted glow, shadows curving down his trim body all black and white like something from a film noir. He plants one knee on the bed and reaches out to touch. When his fingers curve around Sam's narrow ankles, his brother jerks and snatches the pillow away from his face to stare up at Dean. "What are you doing?" he asks, face guarded and careful, like he may already know the answer but wants to doubt.

"I wanna suck your cock," Dean tells him, straight to the point because he figures any timid intimations would make an act of incest somehow _more_ perverse. "Can I?"

Sam's fox-slanted eyes narrow in distrust and he examines Dean's face for a long tense moment. "You're fucking with me," he declares, but it sounds more like a question.

Dean pulls his other leg up on the bed until he's kneeling between Sam's spread legs. "You know I'm not," all confidence because they've been dancing around this for months. His hands curve and glide up Sam's calves. "Just let me."

Sam's muscles jump under Dean's roving hands, but he doesn't refuse him. Neither does he accept, verbally, but Dean decides to take his silence as permission. It's kind of annoying really, but Dean's been shouldering blame all his life and he's willing to do it once more if means getting his mouth around Sam.

If Sam were a girl, Dean would work him up with a little foreplay, but he knows from personal experience that men need little encouragement. Besides all that, every moment between them has felt like a prolonged tongue-kiss for too damned long. Instead he sets his palms flat and firm into Sam's thighs and strokes them up until each hair tickles against him. He lets the fingers of his right hand sneak under the leg of Sam's too-big boxers and finds that there's plenty of room to curve around and cup his balls. Dean catches his lower lip between his teeth and groans a little at the delicious feel of Sam's tight sac heavy in the curl of his fingers.

"Dean!" Sam barks, his hips jerking up in a stilted little thrust. Dean just stares for a moment, at Sam's squeezed-shut eyes, the clawing grasp that his long pretty fingers have on the sheets, the smooth curve of exposed neck. The jut of a long, hard dick is tenting Sam's boxers and Dean lays his free palm right over it.

"That's it, Sammy," Dean mutters and leans down to press a sucking kiss on the flat plain of Sam's abdomen, just below the belly button. He dips his tongue in briefly and hums in pleasure. "Gonna make you feel so good, little brother."

While he presses sucking kisses over his brother's belly, Dean slips his hand out of the warm, damp shorts and tugs at the waist. They slide down so easy over skinny hips that rise up just for him. He takes them down only far enough to release Sam's cock and it springs up against his chin.

"Dean, _please_ ," Sam gasps, squirming and tightening his thighs against Dean's shoulders.

"God, Sammy," Dean breathes out, scrapes his teeth over the jutting bone of Sam's hip. "You sound so damn pretty."

The head of Sam's dick is flushed pink and glistening with pre-come. It's inviting in every way, like the sideways glances Sam's been throwing at him, the arching grind of his body while they spar. But it's better cuz it's close and it's naked and it's so, so hungry; hungry like Dean's spit-slicked lips when they close around it and suck it in.

" _Oh, fuck_ ," is the grunting sigh from Sam's pretty mouth. Just thinking about that mouth reminds Dean of his own hard-on 'til he's pressing a palm against the swell of it, trying to dampen his own lust enough to focus on Sam's. But then he thinks about fucking and the only thing left to distract him is the slide of his mouth down the hard shaft that's filling it.

The strangest thing about all of this is how _natural_ it feels to be blowing his baby brother. He hasn't done this with anyone else and now he knows why, because it seems right that Sam should be the first. The velvet-over-muscle feel against his tongue awakens nerve-endings he didn't even know he had, the taste is bitter and earthy like fresh mown grass and crazy similar to Dean's own. He's light-headed and horny and taking long, slurping sucks until Sam starts hitching up in a stilted, broken rhythm.

Dean hollows his cheeks, glides the tip of his tongue over the underside just how he likes himself. He wraps his lips around his teeth and bobs down until the head is hitting his throat, saliva pooling up and smoothing the way. Each moan and gasp from Sam makes it heady and sharp at the same time. And Dean's never been harder in his life as he is with a cock filling his mouth, even if the power-edge he gets from giving pleasure is familiar. It's _Sam_ and that's different and so much better than anything.

He can tell that Sam is close now, writhing and twisting. One slim-fingered hand grasps Dean's shoulder and pulls. In turn, Dean wraps one hand around the base; coaxing tugs into his slick, open mouth. Sam's hand on his shoulder gives a warning push and he gasps, "Dean, Dean, I'm gonna- ugh!"

He can feel the rippling pulse and lets a shot of come flood him before pulling off and stroking Sam through the rest of it. White, salty streaks hit his lips and drip in spatters over Sam's bare stomach, painting a glittering map under the yellow glow of the bathroom light.

When it's done, Sam falls in a spent sprawl over the crumpled sheets. His legs are loose and splayed, crooked in almost awkward angles that still look somehow relaxed. It's sexy and innocent all at once and Dean can feel it going straight to his own throbbing cock until he can't wait anymore.

Eager and jerky, he pushes back up on his knees, sits back on his heels and hauls Sam's lower half over his thighs. Sam startles a little, eyes flying open while he's manhandled into his brother's lap. That shocky look on Sam's face just about undoes Dean, he entertains a fantasy of tearing off their boxers so he can fuck into the tight, hot body in his hands, but it's silly and unrealistic, no way he'd have the patience for the care he would need to take. Not now anyway.

He just shoves his boxers past his ass, passes his hand through the slick mess on Sam's belly and palms himself. While he makes the first, tight stroke, he claps his gaze on Sam's face. His blown-pupil gaze twists in Dean's gut, has him thrusting up to meet that next smooth slide. Sam watches him bringing himself off, mouth opened and panting a little, tongue darting out swift and hypnotizing. Dean leans forward a bit, rubs the pad of his thumb over the jut of a spit-shiny lower lip.

Dean hears his own groans and grunts like he's something apart from it, striping a quick hard beat to the pounding of his pulse. Sam watches with his heavy-lidded eyes, opens his mouth over Dean's thumb and sucks it in. And that's all it takes to wrench his orgasm out of him quicker and harder than he's shot-off since he was fourteen. It would be shameful if it weren't so damn _good_.

His hand slips away from Sam's face as he falls bonelessly forward, gets a grunt of discomfort from Sam when he gets folded up under Dean's weight. With the last shreds of his energy, Dean straightens his legs so Sam can drop back to the mattress. His trembling arms can't hold him up, so he presses his cheek and ear right against Sammy's chest, listens to the stuttering of his still-rapid heartbeat.

They're wet with sweat and come, pressed closer than ever and the sound of Sam's heart slows to a steady drumming. "Dean?" Sam asks, all quiet and timid, like he thinks Dean might be sleeping.

"Hmm?" Dean hums into Sam's skin, still loose and fucked out.

"Why now? What changed?"

Dean thinks about it, all of it, each glance and touch that's lead up to this moment. But he doesn't have a good answer. It shouldn't have happened, but it has and he's glad. "Everything, Sammy," he says, levers up on his elbows until his face hovers over Sam's. "Everything's changed."

And so he kisses his brother for the first time, sealing them in what's bound to be a disaster of twisted relationship. Dean will blame himself for it later, but he doesn't know, neither of them do, that it's all about destiny. There was never any choice.


	2. so they cling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so they cling, naked skin and opened, panting mouths. And it's all okay.

The dam is cracked and leaking, but it hasn't quite broken. One night of going too far has changed them down to their foundations, but little else has been redefined. Their touches are still brief and stolen, careless things that go nowhere and everywhere. They're a caressing thumb across the pulse of a wrist, the slide of ankles beneath a diner table, the pressing of an ear to a boney back as they sleep against each other in the backseat. All shop-lifted under the watchful eye of a father who sees things that other people can't.

Humid August heat in the bayou of Louisiana. Air conditioning seems like a distant memory, a thing long passed, months back on the Nevada-Utah border. Sweat-tacky skin that won't come clean under a tepid, slow spray. But they've chanced upon a motel with good water pressure and a water heater that was manufactured some time after 1962.

The bathroom is where Sam lives, soaking up the relief of hot showers and clean skin. Dean wonders how much of his time in there is spent jerking off. That thought makes fresh sweat bead on his forehead, a shifty glance at the slumped figure of his father sprawled and sleeping off a bender on the springy couch. He's snoring in deep rumbly bursts, which means he's deeper in than he usually lets himself go.

Steam is filtering out through the cracked bathroom door and he wonders how Sam can stand it with the air as hot and heavy as it is. Dean shucked his t-shirt an hour ago, flipped open the top two buttons on his lightest pair of jeans. He'd have stripped those off too, but he's been half-hard since Sam disappeared into the bathroom and if Dad wakes up, there are things he doesn't need to see.

The old man is dead to the world and Sam is shiny and naked on the other side of that door. His thoughts are stupid and risky, but Dean has always been overly bold. And since he hasn't gotten laid in nearly a month, he's feeling maybe a little more reckless than usual. So he nudges the bathroom door open enough to creep in and shuts it behind him.

Sam's at the sink, smearing toothpaste on his toothbrush and letting water beads drip down the small of his back to wet his white boxers sheer. He quirks his brow questioningly as Dean clicks the door quietly closed, asks, "What's up?"

Touch-hungry hands push Dean away from the door he's leaning against. The space is small and close, just a shuffling step and he's right up behind Sam, palms cupping his slender sides, face pressing into the moist curve of his neck. Sam startles enough to drop his toothbrush and it falls into the sink with a clatter. Dean tilts his head, mouths at Sam's shoulder before saying, "Did you jerk off in the shower? Hm?"

The scent of Irish Spring soap clings to Sam's skin, the tangy fresh-grass smell reminding Dean of the taste of Sam's come. A groan tears its way out of him until he's thrusting his covered dick against the soft mounds of Sam's ass. "Mmm," Sam hums, head falling loosely forward on his neck. Dean glances up to watch his face in the foggy mirror as he lets his tongue glide up his neck. Sam's eyes are clenched closed, wet clumps of hair dangling around his flushed face. "Mm hm," Sam mutters and it takes Dean a moment of lazy tasting to realize that it's an answer to his question.

"What'd you think about, huh? When you were stroking yourself, Sammy. D'you think about this?" Dean asks and slides his hand down to cup the hard bulge raising the front of Sam's boxers.

Sam hisses through his teeth, pushes into Dean's hand. "Yes, yes, this is what I think of."

Dean's eyes fall closed at that soft, desperate sound. He noses behind Sam's ear and takes a deep breath of him, drunk on the scent and warmth. He's humping against Sam's ass in soft, slow thrusts when his hand slips in and wraps around the firm, pulsing flesh of Sam's hard-on. He gets this delicious keening sound for it and feels his lips spread out in a proud grin.

The hand not moving in long, slow strokes glides up Sam's chest, thumbs his perky little nipples. It moves back down, fingertips catching the waistband of boxers and lowering them in short jerks. Pressing his forehead against the base of Sam's neck, he watches through slitted eyes while the fabric is dragged away, the soft rise of Sam's pale cheeks being revealed. He palms first one, then the other, caressing and squeezing just a shade. God, his brother is too damned pretty.

Dean yanks open the last two buttons on his jeans, pushes and shimmies them down with his boxers until his raging hard cock bursts free. He's harder than Sam, flushed and leaking with want. It's only a slight tilt of his hips that has his cockhead brushing Sam's crack in only the lightest of touches, but it has Sam jerking forward like a shot, all tensed up and trembling muscles. " _Dean_!" Sam whisper-shouts, something like fright in his tone.

Something inside of Dean recoils at that slight whine from his brother. He almost pulls away completely, his hands falling away from his brother's skin for entire seconds. It registers through the fog in his brain that Sam thinks Dean's intention is to fuck him and even if that particular thought has its appeal, it isn't what he's looking for. Not yet anyway.

"Shhh, Sammy," he hums, smoothing his hands down the harsh wings of Sam's straining shoulder blades. "Just this, just like this," he tells him and cants his hips forward, slotting the hard line of his dick between the tensed clench of Sam's cheeks. "Only this, I promise."

The tension in Sam's frame eases off slowly, but his arms still tremble in their death-grip on the sink. "Oh," Sam mumbles, "Okay."

Dean takes the consent immediately, crushing his chest up against Sam's back, thrusting a slow slide along Sam's ass. His palm drags back over the jut of Sam's hipbone, fingers through the soft prickle of his pubes and wraps back around the firm base of Sam's still hard prick. He gets a jolt and roll from the body against his and it has him humming a low purr in his throat. Fitting himself in closer, he mouths at the slender line of exposed neck, tongue flicking out and tasting sharp, salty skin. "That's it, Sammy, come on," he mumbles in a cracked, lust-low whisper. "Fuck my fist. Know you want it."

"Yeah," Sam gasps, thrusting into the firm slide of Dean's hand. "Want you, Dean. Always want you."

There's a roiling fire of need in his chest at those words, it has Dean snapping his hips harshly, the drag of his cock against Sam's sweaty skin lighting him up, every nerve tingling with it. "Want you too, want to fuck you _so bad_ ," he's gasping, muttering almost nonsense-like into the wet mess of hair behind Sam's ear.

They're winding up and snapping against each other, firm pushes of flesh against flesh, frantic movements that has Sam's cock tunneling into Dean's grip, Dean's cock sliding into the press. "Want you to fuck me too," Dean tells him in a pant, nips the shell of Sam's ear. "Feel you deep inside, that long pretty cock opening me up. Fuck! It'd feel so good."

Filthy animal grunts from Sam, hips rolling and pushing, sweat and precome making it slick and easy. And then Sam is coming hard, splashing hot fluid over Dean's hand and the cool porcelain sink. It's got Dean all crazy, balls pulling tight up with the need to follow and his hips stutter all needy and lost to the rhythm. His hand releases Sam's softening member and slams down on the sink. He can't grip it, palm and fingers sliding through the slick mess of come and just knowing that _he_ was the one who wrung it from his beautiful, slutty-hot brother just fucking ends him.

When his orgasm tears through him, long, slow and sweet, he whines, _whines_ like freaking girl, grinding so tight against Sam's loose body that the full length of him is hugged tight by his brother's pliant body.

Dean collapses against Sam's back, knees all jelly-like and threatening to give. His breath is painting Sam's neck moist, tongue flicking out and tasting, licking from shoulder to ear. Both of them tremble, pressed too close in the hot misty bathroom. " _Dean_?" Sam asks, broken and lost and it twists Dean's stomach up in knots.

"Shhh," he soothes, hands petting over miles of skin, arms and chest all spanning out on that long, pretty frame of Sam's. "Shhh."

He pulls back enough to urge Sam around, guiding him to twist with one hand on his shoulder and another on his hip. Once they're facing, Sam's head hangs loose on his neck, avoiding eye contact, shy and self-conscious. Dean gets his fingers in all that damp hair and pulls up enough that he can slant his mouth across Sam's.

There's no tongue, no lust, just the crush of lips against lips, sharing breath and spit and trembling arms all wrapped around each other. "Love you, baby," Dean whispers, so quiet it's barely heard. "Love you, Sammy. My Sammy."

Sam's forehead falls against Dean's, rolls a little until he's got his cheek cradled in the curve of Dean's neck. "You too, Dean. Love you."

And so they cling, naked skin and opened, panting mouths. And it's all okay. They have each other and everything's gonna be all right. Until it's not. But that's a long time coming, so they cling to each other and love each other for now.


	3. Wide Open Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're wide open spaces, riddled with landmines, stretching vast and bleak.

They're wide open spaces riddled with landmines, stretching vast and bleak. There's nothing but horizon when they look… and the other is that dimming sun dipping low in the distance. Miles apart for all their closeness and who could have known that being two halves of a whole could be so numbing and lonesome? Twenty-six days ago they'd pressed tight into each other, not a whisper of space between their grasping bodies, but it could have been an eternity for all they can tell. Each day is a lifetime past and they've spent them all butting against one another and bouncing off to a greater distance every time.

Sam is an island, shores too rocky and treacherous to scale. Every time Dean tries, he gets cut up, thrust into jagged cliffs by the waves of Sam's frustration and aggression.

Moist chilled air in a Pacific Northwest September. Gray light barely seeps through the parted curtains, leaves the tiny bedroom draped in heavy shadow. It's a culture shock from the orange vibrancy of the South Dean was cursing just days ago. How can this be the same country, he wonders, sprawled at the foot of his twin bed.

His booted feet are still planted on the floor, too heavy to drag off when he's this bone-weary. After three months of hunting, driving, training, Dad only stayed long enough to sign a month to month on this crap-hole and register Sam at the local high school. Out the door on another hunt, werewolf pack in Idaho and Dean just can't bring himself to mourn his departure. The way Sam and John fought wore Dean down more intensely than their nomadic lifestyle ever could.

"Dean?" he hears Sam ask and slides his hand off his eyes. There's a vague Sam-shaped outline in the dark of the doorway. He's leaning against the jam, studied indolence that Dean thinks is mimicry of his own. "You sleeping?"

"Nah, just resting my eyes," he mutters and levers himself up on his elbows. He squints against the shadows, tries to make out his brother's face but fails. "What's up?"

That gray silhouette gives a negligent shrug, arms crossed. "Dad's gone," is his answer. No answer at all, just the right words to set Dean's teeth to grinding.

Dean falls back against the bed, one arm falling over the edge to trail fingertips against the shag carpet. There's a sticky quality to it, like it's soaked up the damp of the air here. "Yeah, Sam. I sort of noticed. What's your point?"

"You wanna fool around?"

Dean pulls his best what-the-hell? face and lifts his heavy head to throw it at Sam. Because _really_? For almost a month Sam's been flinching away from him, like he's guilty by association in the epic squabble between his brother and father. And to be honest, Dean had started to think this was all his fault, can trace Sam's volatile behavior back to the first time they'd gotten dirty and come-sticky together. Dean's gotten pretty damned good at beating himself up over it. And there's _that_ particular rug pulled out from under him.

"How about you go fuck yourself, Sam?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't particularly want one, just rolls over and crawls further up the bed, faceplants against the pillow with a frustrated huff and prays his brother fucks off for long enough he can slip in a nap. The hopes and dreams of a doomed man. When he feels the bed dip, he knows his wishes were all for naught. That perverted place in his gut twists in anticipation because for all his bluster, Dean sort of _does_ want to fool around.

The kid's massive paws settle over Dean's tensed shoulders, give them a tight squeeze as he leans down and whispers husky in Dean's ear. "How about you do it for me?"

Those words, that damp and hot whisper slinks under Dean's clothes, brushes sickly sweet over his skin and perks his nipples against the mattress. "What?" he asks back, voice muffled against the cushy press of the pillow.

"Want inside me, don't you?" Sam mutters close to his ear, lips catching and wetting the lobe so Dean can feel it down to his toes. There's this challenging, petulant lilt to Sam's tone that raises the hair on the back of Dean's neck. It twists a tight lump in his throat that he quickly recognizes as anger, but drops about a gallon of blood straight to his dick at the same time.

Turned on and angry have never been a good combination for Dean. He wants to swallow the anger back because he tries, really fucking tries, never to direct that impotent fury that he sometimes feels at Sam, even when Sam's the cause of it. _Especially_ when Sam's the cause, which happens more and more frequently since Dean started getting hard for him.

He gives his best efforts to choke it back, but that bitchy little note in Sam's voice and the last twenty-six days keep him pissed off and horny. Dean gets hot flashes of memory; Sam walking around in a low-slung towel, crawling into bed in nothing but a pair of worn boxers, pushing up the hem of a t-shirt to scratch idly at the flat of his belly. And doing it, all of it, from a distance. Never letting Dean near him, pushing him away with stony silences and teenage angst. Now the little fucking cocktease is breathing on Dean's neck and daring him to do something about it.

When he twists around and tackles Sam off the bed, the surprised grunt he gets satisfies that nasty little knot of wrath chewing at Dean's gut. They tumble to the narrow patch of floor between their matching twin beds with barely enough room for the spread of Sam's thighs around Dean's hips. Dean pins the skinny little fucker with his forearm across Sam's chest and the crush of his pelvis, hard cock grinding into the crease of Sam's hip.

Lips crash together, the bite of teeth in the wet plush flesh, tongues slip-sliding in matching thrusts. They haven't kissed much and when they have, it's been after the lust, sweet acts of love and reassurance. Dean likes this more, the ravaging crush of their mouths, like they could suck each other down with each swipe and lick. He pulls back half an inch, pants into Sam's open mouth and gives a little nip to the thin line of his upper lip.

Dean lifts his hips just enough to get his hand between them, cups the bulge in Sam's pants and squeezes. "Want me to fuck you?" he asks, licks a stripe up Sam's arching neck. He rolls his palm, listens to the hot woofs of breath in the black space beneath him. Dean can't see a damn thing, wishes he could, but maybe this is just the kind of thing they should hide in the dark. "Say it, you little bitch. Fucking say it," he demands, working his hand faster, harder against the line of Sam's cock.

"Yes," Sam hisses out, hot breath washing against Dean's open lips. "I want it, okay? Hate you for making me want it so bad, Dean."

Dean tilts his face down, noses along the line of Sam's cheekbone until he can find the shell of his ear in the darkness. "That's not what I want to hear," he mutters and licks, sucks the lobe into his mouth and groans at the salty taste. "Say it." His hand slows and just presses against Sam's zipper, can feel the warm hardness beneath twitching in complaint.

"Fuck me, Dean," Sam whispers in a lust-gritty voice. It's got that taunting little ring to it again, like some part of him thinks that Dean won't really do it. Now that's just stupid, Dean thinks. He's never once backed down from a dare.

Dean pulls up and back just long enough to flip Sam onto his stomach, manhandles him rough in the narrow space and ignores the grunts of complaint. Groping in the dark, he finds the back of his brother's neck and palms it, presses down and commands, "Don't fucking move." Keeps his grip tight while he fumbles around behind him in the nightstand drawer.

Dean had just finished unpacking before Sam came into the room and the lube he threw in the nightstand next to the skin mags is really easy to find, even clawing around in the dark as he is. He sets it between his teeth to free his hands up and gropes around Sam's hips for the button of his jeans. "Jesus, can't we at least get on a bed?!" Sam gasps out, trying to jerk away from Dean's grasping hands.

He curves his hand around the sweat-damp back of Sam's neck and pushes down, forces his brother's face to the floor and lets the plastic tube fall from between his clenched teeth. "Want me to be gentle, Sammy? Huh? Lay you out on clean sheets and make it sweet? Is that what you're wanting so fucking bad?"

Barely even recognizes his own voice, but Dean's still a little bit pissed. That alone should be reason enough for him to stop, stop before he does something really mean, but he's feeling bitter and hurt, remembering all of those cool sneers and snapping words in the days past. His hand smoothes up Sam's neck, into his too-long hair where it's easy for Dean to get a firm, tight grasp. And with his hand removed, Dean can lean forward, set his teeth against the arch of throat.

There's this hitching, gulping sound from Sam and then a panting whine. Dean starts to lick and suck at the warm line of skin, a manic hum of lust rising from his chest as he grinds his dick into the rise of Sam's ass. He remembers how it felt before, bare and damp, nestled there as he thrust and Sam clenched. It had been sweet and dirty, but _this_ , this is just filthy. Nothing sweet about him marking and rutting against his kid brother in a shadow heavy room on a carpet the smells faintly of mildew. Funny how it's even better.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, Sammy. How do you want it, huh?" Dean asks with his lips still nudging the skin he's left spit-slick. "Give you what you want," he mutters raggedly, still pushing shallow thrusts against the taut body beneath him. "Don’t I always?"

"Please, Dean," Sam whispers in this rough, shivery voice that Dean barely recognizes. "Any way you want it. Just take me, please."

Those words, _God_ , the desperate ache of them just blast Dean in the gut, coil their way straight to his dick where's it's angry and wanting, trapped in the too-fucking-tight cage of his jeans. He's so horny he's leaking straight through his boxers, damp and hot, needing to be set free. Dean rocks up on his knees, nudging the spread of Sam's thighs wider while he fumbles at his fly to tear it open.

The sweet fucking relief of his cock being freed makes Dean almost dizzy when he shoves his pants and boxers down, leaves them at mid-thigh while he gives himself one long stroke. That's all he allows himself, doesn't want to go off without Sammy there with him. Dean's fingers claw into the denim of Sam's open jeans, nails scraping at the rough fabric before they curl tight over the waistband and yank. Sam grunts and hisses, dick probably caught on the downward sweep.

His hands are trembling when they slide over Sam's bare skin, almost juddering over the soft, sweet curve of his cheeks. Or maybe it's Sam who's shaking so desperately, maybe both of them. Dean can't think of that now, can't think of anything really except getting himself buried in Sam.

The lube is still laying in the bow of Sam's spine and Dean flicks it open, the wet mess of it streaming against his hand when he grips it too tight. It's fucking everywhere, slicking down his fingers and dribbling onto Sam, who squirms when the cold droplets mark his back and ass. "Dean?" Sam asks, a nervous hesitancy to his tone.

"Shh, Sammy, I got this," Dean assures his brother and leans down to wrangle Sam into the position he wants him in. He's all kinds of pushy as he guides Sam up onto his forearms and knees. When he's got him where he wants him, Dean wraps his lube slicked hand around Sam's cock and feels the tension in him shift, Sam groans and fucks into the ring of Dean's fingers, hips rolling.

"Oh, god, Dean. Oh god, please," Sam is lust-babbling and it's so hot. Dean keeps his grip loose enough that Sam won't be able to come, but tight enough to distract from the push of his first finger sliding home. Maybe it's not much of a distraction because Sam clenches and shouts, but Dean thumbs the tip of Sam's cock and that sweet tightness flutters around his digit.

Dean fingers Sam rough and dirty, not as gentle as he'd be with a girl because he knows his brother can take it. And yeah, Sam's taking it so good. First one, then two, fucking into Dean's fist and pushing back to meet his hand. A slippery third gets forced in and Sam arches into it, tries to spread his thighs further, but can't manage it with his jeans still shoved down to his knees. "Gonna fuck you now, Sammy. You want that? Huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, do it," Sam grunts, humping back on Dean's scissoring fingers, opening up so easily for him like Sam was made for this.

Dean pulls his fingers out, swipes through the drying lube on Sam's back and slicks it over his cock. That one stroke almost has Dean coming, but he gives a firm squeeze at the base, holds it there for a few seconds while he regains his composure. Then he's guiding himself blindly, by feel alone, to the ring of Sam's stretched out opening. He doesn't take it slow or easy, just pushes in with one strong glide 'til he's balls deep.

Sam is fluttering and clenching around him, so tight and hot that Dean groans from the sheer bliss of it. And maybe Sam _was_ made for this 'cause he's the one who starts the rhythm, pushing back on Dean's cock and making these noises that would put a whore to shame. "Yeah, yeah, fuck, Dean," Sam's panting.

Dean loses it, just fucking loses it and drops forward on his free hand, while his hips start to jackhammer against Sam's ass. No tenderness, no finesse, just raw animal rutting. He wishes the lights were on, wishes he could see Sam stretched around cock. His other hand falls away from Sam's cock because he needs them both for leverage, props himself up on his arms and just goes to town in hard, shallow thrusts. "Jack yourself, Sam, wanna feel you come for me," he pants.

The only place they're touching is cock to ass and Dean's breathing his own air, dragging the cool moisture into his lungs on grunts and moans. Sweet burning friction on his cock and Sam shifting beneath him, an off-rhythm sway of back and forth. There's a jolt and shudder from Sam when Dean strokes in just the right way, so he cants his hips to that perfect angle, feels the tight ring of muscles clench and release. The rapid pant of Sam's breathing, the choked, whining moans escaping his own mouth. It's too much, too intense and Dean can feel his balls tightening, his orgasm coming on like a freight train. He lifts his left hand, barely holding himself up on one arm as he fists Sam's hair. "Yeah, take it. Just like that, Sam," he's muttering. "Gonna make me come so fucking hard."

"Dean, Dean," Sam cries out and rolls back hard, tightening and fluttering on Dean's cock as he comes. Dean gets two more long, hard pushes before his hips snap forward and his orgasm rushes over him. He crashes into Sam, jerking and moaning as he empties his dick into his brother's welcoming body.

Dean blacks out a little. Maybe ten seconds, maybe a full minute, he can't be sure, but he definitely loses time. When he comes to he's slumped forward, crushing Sam into the carpet, soft dick still trapped inside. "Should I apologize?" he mumbles into the skin behind Sam's ear. Feeling like a bit of a bastard, but strangely euphoric. There's a dopey smile winding across his lips and he's pretty sure Sam can feel it on him.

"Um, that's…not really," Sam is stuttering, voice colored with embarrassment. "I don't think so?"

Dean twists them to the side; stays spooned against Sam and still nestled deeply. Holds him close and tight and wishes they could always stay this way, stay this close and satisfied.

They can't.


	4. The Hopeless Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes in fits and stutters, days and weeks to make up the months and it's all measured against the night things went too far. There's a silent agreement not to touch unless it's absolutely necessary.

Time passes in fits and stutters, days and weeks to make up the months and it's all measured against the night things went too far. There's a silent agreement not to touch unless it's absolutely necessary. Perfunctory slides of skin on skin, accidental nudges as they pass each other in the too-narrow hallway, calculated and detached sparring that's far more clumsy than it's ever been, with neither of them wanting to grasp the other for too long or too tightly.

Three months spent in one place, the cool damp of Northern Oregon seeping into Dean's bones, chilling down to the marrow and heat seems like something from a fairy tale. Every pore tightened until he feels his skin hugging muscles and tissue. It gives him Charley horses in the night, waking him up to the teeth-gritting aches in his legs and arms, choking back groans so Sam won't think he's jerking off.

Weather doesn't seem to bother Sam any. Wherever they stop, whatever the climate, he seems content to be halted. And the kid has any number of other complaints to voice, no need to shift his focus to the misty rains and moody gray skies.

Two days ago Dean stumbled across his kid brother sprawled naked and sweat-slicked with the girl he's been running around with. If he closes his eyes and draws deep breaths through his nose, Dean can almost catch her phantom scent still hanging in the air. He wonders if Sam's bothered to wash his sheets since or if he just lays there at night, smelling his girl's sweat and musk and thinking about her pale thighs spread wide for him.

Dean's seen them together during the day, flirting and grinning at each other on the rain-slicked benches that pepper the local skate park. She isn't Dean's type, too petite and swallowed up in clothes that make her look fatter than she is, swallowed up in Sam's too-long limbs when he hugs her up against his chest. But she's got a wide, generous smile and sparkly blue eyes that make Dean feel just a little bad for hating her as much as does.

He's alone in the apartment right now, laid fully clothed on his rumpled twin bed. The sheets and blankets are lumped uncomfortably in the small of his back, but Dean doesn't have the energy to straighten them out. Squinting through the constant gloom, he sees that Sam's bed was haphazardly made up this morning, wrinkled blankets tugged up and dangling crookedly. Comfy looking. With an exhausted grunt, Dean heaves himself up and flops himself facedown on Sam's bed. Just 'cause it looks more comfy, he tells himself.

Pressed nose down on his brother's bed, Dean is certain that he was right. The blankets smell like sex, like Sam and sex. And maybe Sam's girl isn't the kind he'd go for, but Dean has a new appreciation with her salty-sweet scent heavy in his nostrils. Taking a deep breath, Dean noses deeper against the mattress and imagines Sam lowering his face between her legs, sliding the tip of his tongue between her wet folds.

Dean's cock twitches in his jeans and begins to fill up while the hot, filthy images flash through his mind. Long lines of Sam's tan skin against the smooth ivory Dean had glimpsed two days ago. Lean muscle pressing into the soft give of her full hips, thick long cock sliding into tight, wet heat and the slow, smooth flex of Sam's ass pumping, giving it to her sweet and gentle. Sam's girl is small all over and he'd have to do it careful if he didn't want to hurt her, but maybe he'd lose himself after a while, going faster and harder as he got closer and closer.

A low moan rumbles up from Dean while he humps his hips into the mattress, sucks and chews at his lower lip. Rising up just enough, Dean palms himself through the heavy denim of his jeans, remembers months back when he told Sam just the right way to eat a girl out and how little Sammy had shifted anxiously, angled his hips away from Dean so he couldn't see the tenting of his hard-on in his boxers. Remembers the way his mouth had filled with saliva at the thought of getting his mouth around it.

One firm squeeze around the bulge in his jeans and then he's tearing open the button fly, pulling himself through the slit and giving it one slow stroke. "Sammy," Dean breathes hotly into the blankets.

Gone are the thoughts of Sam's pixie girlfriend and it's just him and Sam, rutting hard and nasty in the space between their beds. It's all he ever jerks off to anymore, hand tight and dry around his shaft, but still nowhere near as good as Sam's ass had felt on him. A frustrated huff punches out of him as he picks up speed, hips twitching forward and cockhead brushing the scratchy material of Sam's comforter.

There's a jarring whump of sound behind Dean, the door stuck in the swollen jam being pushed open and every muscle in his body tenses as the hallway light splashes over him. There's a thick lump in his throat and Dean snatches his hand away from his cock, palms the back of his head and tries to hide his face with his folded arms. _Oh, God,_ he thinks, _oh fucking God_.

For a long, heavy moment, the only sound Dean hears is his own panting breath, caught in the cradle of his arms, puffing back against his over-heated face. _Please let him be alone. Please let him be alone,_ Dean thinks fervently. Still embarrassing to be caught getting himself off to the scent of old sex on his little brother's bed, but so much less so if Sam's girl isn't with him this time.

"Dean?" Sam finally breaks the silence. The floorboards creak under the heavy carpet, then a thud that sounds vaguely like Sam's overloaded book bag hitting the floor. "What are you doing?"

Dean hugs his head tighter, bites down on his lip and doesn't answer for a long, tense minute. "Little privacy here, Sammy?" he asks, and it most certainly doesn't sound like begging.

There's another loaded moment of silence and Dean thinks Sam might just move quietly out of the room, give him the privacy he asked for. Dean's dick is still embarrassingly hard, won't go down under the damning gaze of his little brother. "Are you jerking off?" Sam finally asks in this rough near-whisper. "On my bed?"

Dean's never heard Sam's voice so dark and rough and rather than answer, he lets out this pathetic little whimper that he'll deny later, after he's gotten his shit together.

" _Fuck_ ," Sam mutters, low and emphatic. Then there's the rustle of cloth and the thudding of footsteps. The mattress dips under Sam's weight and Dean chokes on a gasp when Sam straddles his thighs and blankets his back. "Dean," Sam growls, locking his long fingers around Dean's wrists to pull his hands away from the back of his head.

"Can't keep doing this to me, Dean," Sam says right against Dean's ear, puffing a hot spread of breath that brings up a riot of goosebumps over his skin.

"Not doin' anything," Dean mutters defensively, even as his dick grows impossibly harder against the bedspread.

"You're a cock-teasing bastard, you know that?" Sam accuses darkly before biting down on Dean's neck and punching out a low moan.

Sam has Dean's wrists pinned so he can't do more than hump against the bed while his neck gets sucked, nipped and licked. He takes a short moment to wonder if Sam used all of these tricks on his new girl, but he knows it's too rough. With a small tilt of his hips, Sam presses against Dean's ass, cock full and hard already.

"Want you all the time, Dean. Can't stop thinking about it," Sam starts mumbling against his skin, swiping out his tongue to chase every punched word. "So fucking pretty. Want your mouth and hands all over me."

Sam lets go of one wrist to twist Dean's head around, angles in for a firm-pressing kiss. Dean opens to it and Sam's tongue slides right in, slow and languorous, licking against Dean's so thoroughly that his own taste is being stolen from his mouth. Sam starts rocking his hips against Dean's ass, rhythm matching up to the pulsing of his tongue.

Dean's so turned on he's shaking with it, caged in by Sam's body, cock trapped and so damned hard it's aching. He breaks the kiss gasping, "Sam, please, please."

"Shh," Sam soothes him, running the tips of his fingers through the short hairs at the back of Dean's head, nuzzling his cheek affectionately. "Gonna take care of you," he promises.

When Sam hooks his arms under Dean's and drags him up on his knees, he goes to him easily and eager. He'll do anything to get off at this point, go in any direction Sam points him if it means he'll get his brother's hands all over him. They kneel back to front on the wobbly mattress and Sam's hands start pulling Dean's clothes off. He helps as much as he's able, shifting here and there, raising his arms when his t-shirt gets skimmed up his chest. His nipples pebble up in the cold air and Sam thumbs them idly before sliding his hands down to the open waist of his jeans.

"God, Dean. Your skin," Sam groans and sucks kisses over his shoulder.

Sam's hand slides into his boxers, cups his cock to carefully maneuver the waistband over the hard jut. The light touch buzzes through Dean's veins, has him chewing at his already blood-heavy lips, but it's too light a touch to bring any kind of relief.

His eyes are squeezed tightly shut as Sam eases him back down. Dean feels too heavy, mind foggy with want, but not so much that he doesn't notice that things are off. This isn't how things usually go between them. It's supposed to be him pushing Sam around, supposed to be him stripping Sam naked and laying him out. But he's just too lost in the moment to really care how it gets done as long as he gets off soon.

Dean must lose a little time while he sucks in deep breaths, clears his head enough to keep up, because suddenly Sam is pressing up behind him and they're both bare-ass naked. All that skin feels amazing against his back, the prodding of Sam's cock against his thigh and Sam's giant hands sliding over his arms and shoulders.

Everything is so close and immediate, Sam mouthing at his neck while he knees Dean's thighs open and _oh, God_ he can suddenly see exactly where this is going. His cock jerks beneath him and a fresh bead of precome pulses out, apparently not as concerned by this new turn of events as Dean's thinks it should be. Instead of freaking out, Dean pushes up on his forearms and spreads for it, his body overtaking his common sense. It's worth it for the moan of appreciation Sam pants out between his shoulders.

There's a cool, slick slide between his cheeks and then the tip of Sam's finger rubs teasingly against the furl of his hole. A jolt of sensation rocks through Dean's entire body and it jacks a shudder and moan out of him. For a few seconds, Sam just pets wetly while he nips and sucks marks into Dean's shoulders. The tip sneaks right in and out again, in and out again and Dean wants more of that right the fuck now. When Sam's finger flirts into his hole again, Dean thrusts back against it, moaning at the full burn.

Dean has fingered himself before and liked it, but it could never compare to _this_. "Jesus, Dean," Sam grunts and swirls his finger inside, glances against Dean's prostate to get him twitching and writhing. "You're so tight. So fucking hungry for it." Sam's fuck-rough voice has a wondering tone to it, like he can't quite believe what's happening right now. That makes two of them.

"More, Sam. Gimme another," Dean grunts, fucking himself back against Sam's hand. The stretch of Sam forcing in another digit sears him from the inside out. There's a heaviness to being filled like this, mild discomfort, but in this intense shaky way that has Dean panting so hard he might pass out. It gets worse and better when Sam starts fucking his fingers in and out again, spreading the lube deeper with each thrust and catching Dean's sweet spot on every other pass.

Sam shifts up and gets his mouth right against Dean's ear again, spreads his fingers inside to add another one. Dean takes the extra girth hungrily and bucks back against it. His cock is hanging heavy and angry-red under him, streaking the bedspread with his precome. "Can I fuck you?" Sam asks in this rough, stuttering voice that's just verging on desperation.

And Dean never ever thought he'd want that, but he does. He'd thought about it, of course, when this whole thing started. Just figured he was more of a topping kind of guy, but he was ever so wrong. His answer gets punched out of him with another hard shove of Sam's fingers. "Yeah, fuck, yes," he grunts and let's out a litany of lusty curses.

When Sam pulls out, Dean bites back a whine of disappointment, blinks against the sweat that's searing his eyes. Sam's hands wrap around his waist, tug him back so he's spread around Sam's thighs. He's so open to it that the head of Sam's cock pops right in with barely any pressure behind it. Dean tries to thrust back fast, but Sam's grip stops him. "Slow," he demands. "Wanna feel all of you."

Dean thinks a quick stabbing thrust would have been easier to take, but Sam's slow, inch-by-inch slide burns like hell. He feels himself stretching and clenching, feels Sam's eyes on him while he takes his cock. By the time Sam bottoms out with a rough groan, Dean is shaking almost convulsively, so full with a hot creeping shame flushing him all over.

"Shhh," Sam murmurs, petting his back in sweet soothing caresses, up and down. Sam stays like that for a full minute, hips and balls pressed flush to Dean's ass while he strokes the shakes down to a light tremble. "So good, baby. So tight."

Sam folds himself down again, his sweaty chest slipping over Dean's hunched back. He breathes heavy, whispers sweet and dirty to Dean as he begins a slow, deep thrusting. Dean feels every inch of him, a heavy drag inside. Dean rolls his hips into it, but doesn't try to take over the pace, even if he wants it faster and harder. This way is so intimate, makes him feel too vulnerable. But Sam wants this and that's enough for Dean to let him have it.

Arms wrapped around Dean's chest, pulling him into each thrust, Sam starts to speed up. He stays deep, but snaps his hips in harder and faster until Dean is grunting and sighing. When his hips roll, Sam's cock nails Dean's prostate hard, he sticks to that smooth motion. Dean leaves his weight on one forearm and reaches back to grip Sam's neck, slides his fingers over the sweat and holds him. Sam nuzzles and kisses Dean's cheek, tongues the corner of his mouth. Can't quite twist around for a little mouth to mouth, but it's okay because neither of them could breathe through that anyway.

Every twist of Sam's hips has him milking Dean's sweet spot until he can't help fucking back on his brother's cock. The dirty and wrong of it makes it even hotter and his orgasm sneaks up on him fast and sudden. He feels his balls tighten and cries out as his dick pulses and throbs, he streaks his belly and the blankets without a single stroke to help him along.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck," Sam pants desperately, slamming in with just a few long thrusts until he stills, deep as he can go while he empties hot and wet inside of Dean.

Sam keeps them snugged close together as they come down and catch their breath. Dean can feel Sam softening inside, the hot dribble of come leaking out of him. It feels disgusting, but not as horrible as when Sam pulls out through the wet mess of it. That was just weird and uncomfortable.

One of Sam's arms pulls away and Dean is suddenly aware of the low ache of forming bruises along his rib cage. When Sam reaches between them and slips his fingers into Dean's fucked-out hole with a groan, Dean curses. "Fuck, Sam! Knock it off."

He grunts again when Sam pulls back out and manhandles him onto his back. His brother slides into the space of Dean's spread thighs, their soft cocks slotting together as Sam kisses him long and slow.

Sam pulls back to pant against Dean's kiss-swollen lips, knocks their noses together like a nuzzling cat. "I'm gonna suck your cock hard," he rasps out "and then I'm gonna fuck you again."

Dean gasps at the low, filthy words but shakes his head. "Christ, Sammy. Gotta give me some time to recover."

"Sure," his brother says and mouths along his jaw. "I'll give you a few minutes."

Dean stares at the black behind his twitching eyelids, while Sam starts mapping his neck and chest with tongue-sliding kisses. Takes a deep breath and smells the air, thick and heavy with the scent of sex. Can't smell Sam's girl anymore, but he figures one more round won't hurt.

Well, it will. But Dean's apparently a masochist.


	5. Prisoners of Their Destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two of them breathe through that in-between space, the one that separates brothers from lovers.

Some things change and some stay the same. Weeks pass where they are nothing but brothers to each other, bickering or laughing or training. Sam kicking the back of the passenger seat like a ten year old, Dean finding new and interesting things to stick in Sam's ear while he sleeps, wrestling on cracked linoleum in broke down apartments and fighting for blankets in motel rooms. And other weeks pass with them bending each over every available surface, Sam making use of Dean's body like it's his right and Dean never denying that it is.

Five different states in as many months, but now it's sunny Northern California and only days after Sam's sixteenth birthday. Dad had stuck around to celebrate this time, popping the tab on a beer can and slapping it into Sam's over-sized palm like it was no big deal. The memory is keeping Sam warm and smiling, despite Dad's early morning departure. Dean's trying to keep that grin on him, those flashing white teeth and dimples deep enough to hold the tip of his tongue. He makes bawdy jokes without punch lines, traipses around without a shirt and lightweight track pants that sit low on his hips. Sam watches him with that secret smile on his face, like he knows exactly what Dean's doing, but doesn't mind for once.

They're in a small hunting cabin on the outskirts of Grass Valley, about a half-mile hike from the lake. It's early in the season still and the shores will be empty, especially on this side, where the brush is heavy and the shore is more rocks than it is dirt. "Let's go for a swim, Sammy. It's too nice to stay in, yeah?"

"The lake will be freezing, Dean. It'll turn your balls to ice cubes."

The cabin doesn't get much sun, banked by leafy trees on all sides, but there's one shaft of light coming through the high window. Dust dances in the air, the soft yellow slanting across the double mattress on its rickety bed frame like an open invitation. Like the tilted smirk on Sam's sweet thin lips and the cant of Dean's teasing hips.

"Feeling invested in my balls today, Sam?" Dean asks and catches his lower lip between his teeth. He leans against the counter that separates the kitchenette from the main room, drums his fingertips on his thigh.

Sam is seated at the two person table, hunched down with his thighs spread and one cocky elbow rested on an opened textbook.

The two of them breathe through that in-between space, the one that separates brothers from lovers. It's a borderland of sexual tension and familial obligation, one that narrows down when they have time alone, but not one they always cross. Even with their father gone, they sometimes ignore that itching need that never quite goes away.

Sam's jaw ticks, his eyes narrow, straying over Dean's bared stomach. "Come 'ere," he finally demands.

There's the slightest hesitation from Dean, not wanting to give too much of himself away, but in the end, he does as he's told. With a slight shove away from the counter, he closes the few feet between him and his brother until he's standing between Sam's spread thighs and cocking his eyebrow questioningly. "What do you want to do?" Dean asks.

This thing is almost always on Sam's terms. If Dean had his way, he would have this all of the time, but he so rarely ever gets his way. Sam's hands lift to fit around the jut of Dean's hips, pinkies dipping beneath the waistline of his pants. He leans forward in his chair, breathes into Dean's navel, a stuttering and shaky leak of hot air that has a shiver ratcheting up Dean's spine. "Everything. I want everything," Sam whispers and dips his tongue in.

Dean always, _always_ gives Sam everything. He _loves_ Sam like it's some new form of breathing, one he created all on his own. And everything Dean ever does is him shouting it ( _love you, love you_ ) to his brother and begging for Sam to shout it back. Sam doesn't, of course, love him the same, and Dean wonders how many years of this almost-but-not-quite-enough he'll be able to stand before it breaks him completely.

Sam's tongue is on his skin, flirting around the rim of his belly button, skimming down the thin line of hair running into his pants. Fingers slip all the way under the waistband, drag them down until Dean's a naked offering at his brother's altar and that is enough to have him gripping Sam's shoulders just to stay upright.

"God, Dean," Sam sighs, peeking up through the heavy fringe of his lowered lashes, eyes skating up and over Dean's body like it's something he can't quite believe. One large hand splays out over Dean's belly, the other moving around to cup his ass. "Just look at you."

"Such a romantic, Sammy," Dean half-laughs, half-moans when rough fingertips skirt down the crack of his ass. Dean always tries for a little levity, but really, there's nothing funny about the fierce-hot coil of lust that swells his dick so fast it makes him dizzy. All his blood dumped straight to his groin and the brush of his cockhead on the underside of Sam's chin is nothing to laugh at.

Sam hums in response, rests his forehead against Dean's tightened abs and tilts just enough to brush wet lips over his swollen tip. A tongue flashes out, dips into the slit to taste the come beading up. Dean's grip on Sam's shoulders tightens, hard enough there might be bruises later. That slight squeeze of pain has Sam moaning and opening around Dean, sucking him halfway down in a swift greedy slide.

Dean has the soft, plush lips that men and women stare at longingly, lips meant for kissing and fucking, but no one knows that they're nothing, absolutely _nothing_ compared to Sam's mouth. That wide, generous mouth that could take a dick down whole, soft and wet and sloppy. Only Dean knows that mouth, that mouth that can break him down to his most basic elements. Sam's mouth sucks him like it was made for it, spit and precome leaking from the corners to trail down his balls when the head nudges Sam's throat.

Sam is all mouth and long fingers, tearing at Dean's edges and remaking him. One hand wrapped around his base, while the other makes itself busy clutching at his ass, fingers slipping between his cheeks to just tease at his hole. Dean is torn between thrusting forward into that sweet suction and back against that feather-light pressure.

Dean's eyes are squeezed shut, swirling balls of light flashing in the darkness, dizzying like that too-much pleasure winding up in his gut. He's so close, so very close to coming when Sam pulls off with a gasp. An agonized whimper rips itself from Dean's chest and he nearly stumbles, his eyes flying open. He wants to grab Sam's smug face and push him back where he needs him, fuck into that teasing mouth until he gets off.

Sam grabs his wrists and pulls his grip off, peels off his t-shirt until he's nothing but smooth lines of skin, shadowed with rises of wiry muscle. Dean stands there, looking down through lusty-hazed eyes while his brother flicks open the fly of his jeans and shimmies them down his splayed thighs. Sam's cock bursts free, red and full and leaking at the tip. "Come here," Sam demands again, his voice rough from Dean's cock in his throat.

Heavy, managing grip on Dean's thighs until he's straddling Sam's lap and even if it's a little embarrassing to be spread out like this, Dean thinks it's a brilliant idea. He tips his hips forward enough that their cocks are sliding together and Sam is moaning, wrecked and reddened lips opening up to pant a little.

Sam lunges up, attacks Dean's mouth like he wants to own it. Dean has gotten used to the greedy way Sam kisses, tonguing into his mouth like he wants to crawl in and come out on the other side. Dean sometimes thinks he could come just from this, just from the slip slide of tongues and nipping teeth at his lips. He grips the back of Sam's neck, slides his fingers into the damp hair and palms the back of his head. Dean's other hand sneaks between their bodies, wraps both their dicks as best he can before he starts thrusting.

Sam breaks the kiss with a growl, pants across Dean's jaw, "Don't come yet." Dean had been too distracted by the kiss to notice what Sam was doing with his hands, but when the cool slide of lube-slick fingers slide between his cheeks, he knows. One finger finds his hole and slides right on in, has Dean shuddering enough to release his grip on their cocks. "Want you to ride my cock," Sam whispers against his ear, like it's a special little secret.

Dean wants to be ashamed of how hot that makes him, of the slutty way he grinds back against Sam's hand when he slips another finger in, but he can't see past the red-hot want. _That_ , yes, _that_ sounds like an amazing idea.

The prep is cursory at best, just a slickening of Dean's tight, dry hole before Sam is pulling his fingers out. Dean takes a moment to wonder how his brother is always magicking lube up out of thin air as he watches Sam's hand glossing his cock up with it. Just the idea of Sam walking around with the tube in his pocket, just in case, makes Dean moan like a whore. One strong arm wraps Dean's waist and he helps by planting his toes on the warped floorboards and pushing up. Sam slouches lower in the chair, and the position must be hell on his back, but he gets the head lined up and just thrusts.

It's too much. Not enough prep and Sam isn't exactly small, but Dean slides down on him like it's nothing. He feels the stretch and the burn and is hissing against it, but the very first glide is already hitting that sweet, hidden spot inside. Sam's hands clamp down on Dean's hips and he's hissing too, gritting his teeth on the too-tight friction.

Dean clenches up and watches Sam's mouth drop open on a silent moan, open and wet and filthy enough that Dean wants to slide in and live there. He drops his own mouth against it as he pushes up on his toes, legs shaking with the effort, just breathing into Sam while he sinks back down.

Finding a rhythm isn't easy, every rise and fall threatening to topple them to the floor, but Sam's grip guides him up and down. Sam chants Dean's name like a prayer, eyes glittering beneath his lashes and Dean can't look away for even a second. His cheeks are spread open by Sam's clutching fingers, the hard line of cock filling him over and over until Dean becomes frantic for it. It feels invasive every time, that firm shaft of flesh going where nothing is ever meant to go. But it's rubbing his prostrate in electric shocks of pleasure and Dean wonders, if God never meant his body to receive like this, why it would feel so fucking good. He's pretty sure God doesn't exist anyway.

So, Dean rides his brother's cock, in jerky, shuddering grinds of his hips, toes curling against the weathered floorboards of the dusty cabin. Sam licks and pants into Dean's mouth, rubs his lips against Dean's stubbly chin and pushes his hips up hard, fucking Dean like he wants to punish him.

Sam's head falls back against the chair, his eyes slit open to watch Dean writhe on his dick. "Dean," he gasps again, like he can't help it. There's something in his eyes, something grateful and hateful at the same time. And Dean can see the way Sam blames him for all of this, thinks it's all Dean's fault for making him want this. But Dean can't be sorry when _this_ is all he was ever made to want. "Why, Dean?" Sam grunts, hand coming up to grasp the back of Dean's sweaty neck. "Why?"

Dean tilts his hips closer, gets one hand on his dick and the other on the back of the chair. He rides Sam harder, faster, sweat tickling down his temples. His forehead falls against Sam's and he struggles through moans and grunts of pleasure to answer. "You _know_ why, Sam. You know."

Everything in him tightens up and Dean's coming in hot, pulsing bursts against the flat plains of Sam's stomach. He's speared open on Sam, clenching and fluttering through it until he becomes a boneless mass too spent to move, until he's nothing but an extension of Sam.

Dean is pitched forward, lands on the floor so hard that the breath is knocked clear out of him and his teeth nip his tongue. Sam drags Dean's legs over his shoulders and fucks him relentlessly, face hidden in his neck. Dean takes it all, grunting into every harsh thrust against his abused body, loose and pliant for Sam's need. When Sam comes, it's in a hot flood that fills Dean and seeps out of him, sticky and warm and still really disgusting, but there's something in Dean's revulsion that makes it deliciously _good_.

When it's over, Sam pulls out and flops onto his back beside Dean. He throws an arm over his eyes and gasps for air with these soft, pathetic little hitches. His voice is so quiet when he speaks, that Dean almost doesn't hear him. "I think it's my fault," Sam whispers in a quiet confession. "I keep wanting to blame you, Dean, but I think it's _me_. I think there's something _wrong_ with me."

"Hey, no, Sam," Dean stutters out and rolls onto his side, lays his palm against his brother's hitching chest. "It's not your fault. If you gotta blame someone, blame me. I started it, didn't I?"

Sam drags his arm away from his eyes, looks up at Dean with tear-glittering eyes. He grabs Dean by the arm, drags him halfway on top so their uppers bodies are pressed heavily together. "You don't understand, Dean. You don't know all of the things that are wrong with me. I don't even want you to 'cause I like the way you look at me. Please, Dean."

He says it all in a rush and then he's kissing Dean, kissing him like the world is ending. And Dean would let it, let it all come down around them if he could just keep Sam here beneath him while it happened. And he knows, even though Sam will leave him, when shit goes down, Dean will always be standing between his brother and the end.


	6. bless me now, with your fierce tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Winchesters, haunted Ohio is a home away from home.

~*~*~

When asked, if he doesn’t have any reason to lie, Dean will say that he's from Kansas. He was born there, would have been raised there and his mother is interred there. If Dean had a home, he would say it's Kansas.

The Winchesters aren't really _from_ anywhere though, not in the normal sense of the word. Over the country, back and forth, up and down, the rumble and growl of the Impala, three guys packed too tight and the lingering scent of gunpowder. That's where they're _really_ from.

But one day, Dean got bored, cooling his heels in a motel room that smelled like cigarettes and mildew, all alone because Dad and Sam couldn't be bothered with him anymore and Dean had to find ways to kill the time and his wretched bitterness. So, Dean had tallied up the time, between state to state, days and weeks and months added up in his head. He separated them by hunt and school, the restless spirit in Milwakee, Millard Horizon High in Omaha, the chupacabra in New Mexico. Sixteen days over here, three months over there, carry the three, plus or minus a few hours and the award goes to Ohio.

All the time spent on the road, going from one place to the other fast as their Dad could pack them up and the most time they spent in any one state was Ohio. Civilians usually got it wrong, but in this one thing they know what they're talking about. Ohio is one _haunted_ fucking state.

For anyone who's never been there, it's a forgotten place, just a miles wide space of blankness on the map. Dean crosses the border and smells despair on the wind. Even in those beautiful corners where the land is blessed by all four seasons, there's a sense of melancholy, a wistful sadness that clings in the sharp, clean air.

For the Winchesters, haunted Ohio is a home away from home.   
~*~*~

Just hours out of Iowa, Impala burning up the road, a long black stretch with yellow lines and street reflectors whizzing past them like bouncing bits of amber, Dean realizes they're just driving. Sam's sleepy-quiet in the passenger seat, head tilted against the window glass and eyes slitted open, staring blankly at the dark nothing outside. For whatever reason, they didn't stay in town after the hunt. Just scrubbed up, quick showers to wash off the adrenaline sweat, and beat the hell out of town. They've got no other hunts lined up, no place to be, but Sam wanted out fast and Dean didn't argue.

They're running from a girl, pretty little preacher's daughter with her cow eyes and her moral high ground. Sam liked her enough to beat it, leave her in the taillights and far from the possibility of roasting in flames on the ceiling. It's just enough to make Dean hate her and get his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Chewing up the miles at 80 mph, Dean heads east. Somewhere around Bloomington, his eyes get too itchy, _Badmotorfinger_ 's halfway through the third play and Sam hasn't said a word in over five hours. He pulls off just outside of town, gets a motel room and they both drag clumsy feet over rain-wet pavement, all without saying a goddamn word.

Dean sleeps for six hours, fitful bursts, snapping out of dreams with short bouts of waking, then drifting back off. When sleep gives up on him, Dean lies in bed for full minutes without peeling his eyes open, just listens to the struggling hum of the heater and the soft, even keel of Sam's breathing in the next bed over.

Dean can hear his own heart too, notices how it's beats have picked up just a bit. When he peels his sleep-muddied eyes open, Dean peers across the space between the beds and finds Sam staring back, but the space is like a void, like the distance from here to there is never-ending and empty and too-full at the same time.

So, Dean closes his eyes, sleeps for another forty minutes and pretends to forget that Sam looked so lonely.

~*~*~

On the road before dawn breaks the sky with no clear direction or design, the car just angles itself and Dean follows. They pull into a McDonald's drive-thru and Dean orders sausage, egg & cheese biscuits with coffee and a bunch of deep fried heart-attack hashbrowns. For the first time in three days, Sam smiles, just this slight tip at the corner of his lips while he pours four or five sugar packets into his coffee.

After they eat, swapping steam-dampened packages in the front seat, Dean feels better, lighter, even as his stomach is tight with too much food. For the first time since they hit the road together, Sam eats more food than Dean and he's the one who rummages through the box of tapes. They've been listening to the same Soundgarden tape for half a day, so Sam slips in a scratchy live Bowie mix that a guy Dean used to smoke out with copied for him years back. The atmosphere in the car lightens when the dreamy guitar kicks in and Dean hums off-key as the wheels spatter-splash on the rain-soaked asphalt.

Sam and Dean have had arguments (or discussions, if you ask Sam) about the cognition of their car. Sam, of course, insists that the Impala is an inanimate object that goes from point A to point B when directed. He agrees that it's a good car, that it's more of a home than any other place the Winchesters have known, but it is only, simply a _car_. Dean knows better. His baby has a spirit, it has heart and takes them wherever they _need_ to be, whenever they need to be there.

Dean lets her set the pace, lets her drift from one interstate to another, takes the exits she urges them towards and all the while he just drums his fingers along with the music. Every now and then, he glances at Sam. He's got a tan that seems out of place against the rainy gray Midwest. Sam was made for Southern climes, always a ruddy brown when they haven't seen sun for months at a time. If Dean leaned over, put his mouth to that stretch of summer-colored skin, he might taste warmth.

His stomach moans, breakfast hours past, so Dean gets his mind back on the road. He spots a sign for gas-food-lodging not seconds later and grins because his baby brought them right where they need to be. "Bob Evans, Hells yeah!" Dean just about shouts, slaps the back of his hand against Sam's chest in his excitement.

They take the next exit and find the barn-red sign with yellow script right away. Dean loves these Midwest chains, can't get enough of them. Bob Evans, Waffle House, Cracker Barrel, they're the closest he's ever come to home-cooked meals and to him, it's like grandma made his meatloaf or fried his eggs. He can pretend there's a little love in the food when it's brought to him by a gal named Sue in a cotton-polyester dress and apron. They're reliable in a way truck-stop diners aren't because Dean always knows how the pie will taste, how the cherry cokes will always be too sweet and the coffee a little bitter and weak. There will always be Gourmet Lollipops for .99 cents and red & white peppermints for free at the register.

They're scooting into a red-vinyl booth when Sam speaks for the first time in over a day. "Hey," he starts out, brows squinched in annoyed confusion. "Where are we?"

Dean blinks and smiles, pleased to hear Sam. "I'm disappointed in you, Sammy," he says, though his tone makes a liar of him. "Didn't I teach you to always be aware of your surroundings?"

That gets an eye-roll in response and now they're on their way back to normal. Sam will slowly stuff that Lori girl to the back of his mind, overshadowed by Jess in flames and Dean behind the wheel.

"It's Day-town Oh, Sammy," Dean finally answers after pausing to order his too-sweet cherry coke from the tired looking waitress. "Don't you recognize our old stomping grounds?"

For three months when Sam was seventeen, the Winchesters rented a double-story duplex on Wyoming Street. It was run down, with warped hardwood floors and cockroaches the size of Dean's thumbs. It smelled like wet leaves and dirt and never got over sixty degrees in the misty fall weather. The boys stayed in that broken down place where the neighbors played bass-heavy Rap that shook the walls and John went off on overnight or weekend hunts, cleaning up hauntings from Cinci to Lima and back again.

"The whole country is our old stomping grounds, Dean," Sam replies, stirring Splenda into his iced tea with lemon. "All these places start to look the same after a while."

Dean might be a little disappointed with that response, but he learned a long time ago that what he finds special, Sam never does.

Lunch is a turkey club and potato salad for Sam, meatloaf and macaroni for Dean. They clean their plates like they haven't eaten in days. On the way out, Dean grabs a newspaper and a root beer flavored lolli.

"Find us a hunt, bitch," Dean demands, tossing the paper into Sam's lap when they climb into the car. He notices with a slow simmer of satisfaction the way Sam's eyes catch on his mouth slurping the sucker. Dean purses his lips and twists the fat, round candy between them, gives it a sharp, sweet kiss and that has Sam glancing away, flushed in the face.

Dean checks them into the Marriott by U.D., a room way pricier and cleaner than they're used to, but cheap hotels in Dayton are a whole different brand of awful. They're all crack-whores and dealers, the acrid stench of charred meth foils and roaches, every low-rent place in town has roaches. They give Dean the jeebies, but Sam fucking _hates_ roaches.

"This place smells funny," Dean complains, bouncing back on the mattress while Sam pulls open his laptop.

"That would be detergent and cleaning products, Dean."

"Is _that_ what that is?" Dean smiles and twists onto his side, head resting in his hand. If the move gets his t-shirt riding up a little, it's not like a big deal, not like it's premeditated or anything. "Hey, let's run over to UDF, get some double-chocolate malts with raspberry sauce."

Sam doesn't even look up from his computer, just shakes his head as he navigates from screen to screen. "You go, I'll see what I can find in the area. Make mine a regular, huh? No point in ruining perfectly good chocolate with fake fruit."

If Sam had agreed to go, Dean would have liked to walk. The streets are still wet, but it's stopped raining. He can smell car exhaust and green earth in the air. Instead he hops in the car and drives the three or so blocks. While he's killing time under the harsh florescent lights of the gas station/convenience store/ice cream parlor, Dean flirts with the girl who's making his shakes. She's much too young for him and fuller in the mid-section than he usually likes, but the store is dead and she looks bored. Dean is nothing if not a good time.

Dean's shake is half-gone by the time he gets back to the room.

"Got something," Sam tells him, flicking his eyes up from the screen. Those foxy eyes zero in on Dean's straw-sucking lips again, but Sam shakes it off and goes back to the computer.

"Already? Man, that was quick."

"Dude, _Ohio_ ," Sam points out, eyebrow arched with half a smirk.

"Fair point, little brother." Dean sits on his bed and works open the laces of his boots. "I'm all ears. What'cha got?"

Sam does that thing he does when he thinks he's on to something, twists in his chair to face Dean, watches keenly to make sure Dean is sufficiently dazzled with his brilliance. So, Sam spins Dean this yarn of boys in black lipstick cutting their wrists at different times and on different dates, boys who circled an angel statue in an online picture.

"You don't think that maybe they were all just bummed out?" Dean asks, scootching to the end of the bed and squinting at the photo Sam has pulled up on one of the kids' MySpace page. "Hey, that statue is familiar. Where have I seen that?"

A flicker-glance at Sam shows him blushing from the neck up, eyes averted. "It's at Woodland Cemetery."

So Sam _does_ remember if that shamed-face squint is anything to go by. Years back, buzzed and stumbling between headstones, pressing Dean into the cold granite mausoleum and smearing giggles and hot breath into the skin over his hipbone. Running with the ghost of Johnny Morehouse and his dog, boots crunching through the fallen leaves while Sam outpaced Dean, their drunken, panting breaths blending prettily with a child's sweet laughter and excited barking.

"Still, it seems pretty thin." Dean breaks the awkward silence. "Could just be a suicide pact or something."

Sam's teeth catch his lower lip in a flash of sharp white, scrape the flesh almost brutally, like he's trying to bite the memories away, anchor himself in the now. He shakes his head, as much to clear it as to disagree with Dean. Hair falls over Sam's eyes, but Dean got used to that evasive tactic years ago. "I thought of that," Sam finally responds. "There have been four other unrelated suicides in the last three weeks, all with their wrists cut. I was able to trace two of those back to Woodland."

Dean sighs and palms the back of his neck. The spirits of Woodland Cemetery have always been passive. For some reason, he doesn't like the idea of an angry spook infiltrating the haunting grounds of the sad and restless, worries that the rage might spread and infect the others. "All right, let's check out likely candidates in the morning. Check interments over the last year or so?"

That night, Dean crawls into bed early and watches Sam in the glow of the laptop monitor. Even though they both know Dean isn't sleeping, Sam softens his typing, dims it to patter instead of the ringing clacks.

Five years ago, Dean looked up at Sam in a similar light in a house not two miles from where he lays this night. Stolen porn on the TV flickering Sam's angles with shadows, on his knees, Dean had asked, "Think that's hot, Sammy?" about the image on screen. Sam had palmed the back of Dean's head, painted his lips with his wet tip and said, "Not as hot as this. Open up for me."

Dean drifts to sleep to the lullaby of Sam's typing and breathing, occupying the same space as Dean.

~*~*~

Dean wakes to the sound of humming pipes, the faint echo of pattering water in the shower. It's just after seven in the morning and he wonders if Sam slept at all. There have been some pretty heavily implied rules about bathroom privacy since Sam returned, but Dean's mouth tastes like death and he has to pee.

Rolling out of the warm cocoon of his blankets, Dean stretches, back and neck popping. With a light rap of his knuckles, Dean cracks open the bathroom door. "Cover up, princess. I'm coming in."

It's warm and steamy in the enclosed space, mirror just fogging at the edges.

"You couldn't wait five minutes, jerk?" Sam complains behind the shower curtain.

"Aw, did I interrupt your "special time", Sammy?" Dean teases, pointedly ignoring the long, long shadow of Sam, naked and wet just inches away.

Dean quickly relieves himself and brushes his teeth while the rich, sharp scent of Sam's shampoo fills the air. Before Stanford, Dean might have slipped into the shower behind Sam, followed the suds licking down Sam's back with his fingers, wriggled close and sucked at that place behind Sam's ear that drives him batshit crazy. Instead, mouth minty fresh, Dean sneaks back out and waits his turn, like a normal brother.

"Save me some hot water, bitch," Dean tosses out as he leaves.

Halfway through his first set of push-ups, Dean doesn't hear Sam leave the bathroom, but he feels eyes on his bare back. His muscles shift, sweat already pricking his skin from the previous set of sit-ups, Dean lets his breath speed up a little.

"I checked into the recent interments at Woodland," Sam breaks the silence, voice rough and raspy. Dean can hear him rummaging through his bag for a fresh change of clothes. "There are a couple that could fit the MO, one suspected suicide and another guy with a violent history."

Turning back around for another set of sit-ups, Dean's eyes catch on the bare length of Sam's chest, warm tan skin and cut muscles. At least Sam didn't let himself go. "So, what? You wanna do some next of kin interviews?"

"Yeah, but I think we should do some recon first," Sam answers with a grimace. Can't seem to find any clean socks in his duffel. They should probably do some laundry soon. "Woodland isn't exactly a low-profile cemetery. There's gonna be security at night. And the new interments are on a plot of land they bought up a couple of years ago, so we should familiarize ourselves with it."

For all of his objections to the life, Sam is good at hunting. He thinks like their father, approaches each hunt like a mission, doesn't jump in the way Dean does. That's why Dean needs him. Well, that's one of the many reasons.

"Works for me," Dean agrees and pushes into a stand. "I've got a couple of clean pairs of socks in my duffel, man. Have at it."

When he passes Sam, Dean gives him a small nudge with his elbow. Sam flinches a little, like he does now whenever they touch. Dean always pretends not to notice, but neither of them is fooled.

~*~*~

November in Ohio is gray and misty. After parking the Impala in the visitor lot, Dean gets out and the moisture in the air seeps into his neck, sends a chill straight to his marrow. It's not bad though, feels clean and cool, fortifying. The coolness wakes him better than his hot shower or the strong black coffee he had with breakfast.

They have to go through the older section of the cemetery to get to the new plots, gravel paths twisting up and over the low rolling hills. Grass going from bright green to a paling yellow in the harsher weather. Autumn leaves are brown and damp on the ground, fallen like aimless specks around the worn headstones. Most of the stones are wearing around the edges, some more elaborate than the others, cherubs and angels, obelisks and monuments, mausoleums for the rich and important dead.

"If we cross through here, it should take us straight to the new plots," Sam says, indicating the direction with a tilt of his head. It cuts through the graveyard, takes them off of the designated pathways. Dean nods and follows.

The ground beneath Dean's boots is spongy and moist, not quite muddy but getting there. Wetness from the grass licks at the cuffs of Dean's jeans, slowly seeping up the fabric. If it manages to rise over the tops of his boots, the dampness will be uncomfortable on his calves.

Sam winds them through a maze of markers, carefully treading at the foot of each grave, respectfully avoiding the heart of each resting place.

"You two again?" a girl's voice speaks, halting Dean in his tracks so he snaps back with a glance over his shoulder. Seated on a headstone he just passed is a young woman, feet dangling, swinging and thumping back against the grave marker. She hadn't been there a moment ago, Dean's sure of it, so he turns cautiously and gives her his full attention. He can feel Sam doing the same at his back.

"What was that?" Dean asks. She's small and pretty, no more than sixteen with long blonde hair and big blue eyes, simple Midwest girl through and through. Her clothes aren't right for the weather, a short-sleeved white blouse, jeans and tennis shoes. It'd be fine for spring, but it's pushing in on winter now and the bite in the air has fangs.

"I remember you two," the girl answers with a wry smile too old for her lips. "You're not the kind I'd forget."

"Do we know you?" Sam steps up to Dean's shoulder, just barely touching, arms brushing. It's how they communicate when they aren't looking at each other, just get in each other's space, say it with a touch that they're on the same page. It's really the only time that touching is permissible.

The girl tosses her head, a length of silky pale hair flying over her shoulder. Those feet are still kicking the stone, but not making the slightest sound. "You were both happy that night," the girl tells them, smile gone from wry to dreamy. "Running and drinking, doing nasty things with each other. I remember your heat. I watched you. And I wasn't the only one."

Dean hears when Sam's breath catches, feels how he goes rigid as a statue beside him. He's not sure what bothers Sam more, the fact that she brought up their fucking, something Sam clearly wants to forget and pretend never happened, or that she admitted to watching them.

"So, you're not the only creepy ghost voyeur in this cemetery. You guys should start a support group or something," Dean quips, hand inching slowly to the pocket of his coat where he stowed a small canister of rock salt. This was just supposed to be a recon run, plus daytime wasn't conducive to hauling around his sawed-off.

"You're not happy anymore," the girl continues, still sitting and swinging her feet carelessly. There's something epically beautiful about her, the eerie half-there way she blends into the background. The trees and gravestones rise up around her, a cool mist swirls beneath the swaying soles of her shoes. She seems more relaxed than Dean can ever remember being in his whole life, like she's found her repose, even as she clings to the wrong world.

"I can taste your misery," she says then. "Bitter on my tongue like raw cranberries."

"Can you help us?" Sam breaks in, voice rough in stark contrast to the girl's lilting tone. "Some people killed themselves after visiting-"

"Cowards!" the girl shouts, interrupting Sam. "They didn't have the courage to find their peace, but I helped them and I'll help you too."

Then in a flickering flash, the girl materializes right in front of them. It's so sudden and unexpected, both Dean and Sam lulled by the ghost's misleading tranquility. Before either of them can react, she plants her palms in the center of Sam's chest, a cold frost crackling up his front and seeping into him.

Sam shouts and Dean scrabbles the rock salt from his pocket, twists it open with the flick of his thumb and tosses it at the ghost. Her form stutters and dies, leaving open air in her wake, but Sam is gasping desperate breaths before he goes to his knees in the mossy wet grass.

~*~*~

Sam insists that he's fine and, try as he might, Dean can't find any signs to dispute the claim. There was the brief adrenaline rush that always comes from getting punched by a ghost, the shivers that followed the cold flash and Dean's pretty sure Sam tweaked his pectoral muscle because he keeps doing this dorky little stretch and grimace dance.

As soon as they got back to the hotel room, Sam jumped on the laptop. He's been cross-referencing the recent interments for a likely match to the ghost-girl they met up with while Dean emptied the weapons bag to do a thorough cleaning of all the guns, sharpening of all the blades. He's packing salt rounds when Sam says, "Can you go grab something to eat, man? I'm starving here."

Sam doesn't even glance away from the screen.

"We can order some pizza," Dean suggests, nervous about leaving Sam alone after what happened earlier.

Against Dean's better judgment, Sam talks him into picking up dinner from Donato's. It's one of those places they can only get in this area and his brother has a freaky fondness for their Hawaiian with almonds and cinnamon.

When Dean returns to the room, warmth of the pizza bleeding into his forearm, a six-pack of beer dangling from the fingers of the other hand, Sam isn't at the computer. "Sammy?" Dean calls out, seeing the slant of light peeking out from a crack in the bathroom door.

"Dean?" Sam calls back, voice strained and slightly panicked.

Without a second thought, Dean drops the food and beer and bounds across the room. He shoves the door to the bathroom all the way open and finds Sam standing in front of the sink. Every line in Sam's body is taut and trembling, one arm held before him, each muscle and tendon straining under the skin. One of their finely honed silver knives is hovering over the thin skin of Sam's wrist. There are already a couple of shallow cuts in the skin, little dribbles of blood beading up too-red in the warm yellow light of the bathroom.

"I can't stop, Dean," Sam breaks the silence, voice scared and miserable.

Slowly, like he's approaching a spooked animal, Dean slinks up behind Sam. As he moves, the blade comes down on skin, another bead of blood immediately welling up and Dean lunges in. Quick as a viper, he grabs Sam's wrist, the one with the blade and slams it down on the counter, hard. The jarring blow opens Sam's fingers from around the hilt and the blade falls into the sink with a clatter.

Before Sam can grab for the knife again, Dean snaps him up in a full nelson and hustles him out of the bathroom. "What the hell, Sam?"

Sam sinks to his knees and Dean follows him, keeping the hold tight, just in case. "I couldn't stop," Sam pants out and he's starting to struggle. There's a sheen of sweat all along his neck, one drop slowly trickling down his temple. "I just- I just wanted it _over_. And then I couldn't stop myself."

"Shit," Dean swears into Sam's shoulder, arms getting tired from holding Sam when he doesn’t want to be held. Or, it would seem, does want to be held, but can't get his body to agree with his mind. "That ghost chick shot you up with suicidal tendencies."

"Let me go, Dean, let me go," Sam starts jerking against him, bucking like a wild beast. Sam is bigger and stronger, but Dean knows his holds, knows how to stay grounded and firm. He was always better at this than Sam. "Can't touch me, Dean. Can't let you make me forget."

Dean doesn't want to hear anymore of this, so he lets one of Sam's arms slip the lock. The sudden release makes Sam overbalance, it's only the hold of Dean's other arm that keeps him from face-planting into the carpet. Before Sam can get his bearings, Dean hooks Sam's windpipe in the curve of his elbow and applies a light but firm pressure. "Sorry, little brother," Dean murmurs into Sam's hair while he chokes him out. "Gotta go to sleep, Sammy. Go to sleep."

Every part of Dean revolts against hurting Sam like this, but it's a do what you gotta do situation here. He can't work the problem if he has to worry about Sam trying to gank himself. Sam doesn't go lightly, he struggles and squirms, claws furiously at Dean's arm as his face goes red and he struggles for breath. Dean grits his teeth as Sam's nails pierce his skin, but he calmly counts it out.

After one of the longest minutes of Dean's life, Sam starts to fade. He releases the hold as soon as he can safely do it without Sam bouncing right back. Luckily, the weapons bag is still emptied and strewn across Dean's bed. There's a nylon rope lying amidst the knives and guns, ammo and salt canisters. Dean snatches it up and makes quick work of hog-tying Sam with tight granny knots.

~*~*~

The thing is, Dean _can_ do research. He's not as good at it as Sam and it usually takes him longer to track things down, but he was taught just like Sam all the right places to go looking. Sam's better because he can sneak his way into closed websites and Dean's more of a printed word kind of man.

When they were younger, Dean would warm up with pride every time Sam found the weakness of a monster or translated a Latin text. Sam excelled where Dean never could and vice versa. It made them a perfect match as far as he was concerned. Where Sam was book-smart, Dean was street-smart. Where Sam was strong, Dean was fast. Sam was good with knives and Dean good with guns. It never really occurred to Dean to be jealous of any of Sam's attributes, not in the way Sam often was with him.

Right now though, Dean is feeling a little green with envy. If the positions were reversed, if it were Dean down for the count and Sam at the helm, this thing would be done by now.

Sam woke a little more than an hour ago. Dean managed to wrangle him onto his bed, but the pull of the ropes and Sam's constant squirming are bringing up little moans and huffs of discomfort that Dean can't unhear.

All of Sam's research was still up on the laptop and Dean's been going through it piece by piece. He looks through every interment for the last year, cross-referencing every female with their obituaries, looking for similarities to the ghost they encountered today. When that doesn't work, Dean goes back two years, three years, four. He hunt-and-pecks his way from one sad story to the next. And then Sam starts talking.

"She used to dance," Sam whispers into the air. It's so low that he could be talking to himself and Dean doesn't need a name to know which "she" Sam means. "When she was cleaning, she'd dance. All around the apartment in her bare feet."

Sam never talks to Dean about Jess, that's a silent agreement between them. Sam because he doesn't want to share and Dean because he doesn't want to know.

"She'd turn up her awful chick rock and shimmy around the kitchen and I'd pretend not to like it, but I did. I'd watch her dance and think, 'this is it. She's the one.'"

Squeezing his weary eyes shut, Dean gives them good hard rub. He wants to tell Sam to shut up, _shut up, I don't want to hear it_ , but he just stays focused on the computer. He pulls up another browser and types "Woodland Cemetery hauntings" into the search field.

"I just knew," Sam keeps muttering over the soft sounds of him squirming around on the bed. "I knew that if anyone could make me forget you, it'd be _her_."

Dean clicks on the first result that comes up.

"But I never did," Sam continues. "I never forgot no matter how beautiful she was when she danced."

The site Dean finds has a story about girl, young, pretty blonde in jeans and white tennis shoes. Of course, the last place you look is always the most obvious place to start. Rain starts pattering against the window, Sam keeps talking and the keys on the laptop clatter a little faster as Dean chases down his lead.

"She was right, Dean," Sam grunts, and finally Dean can't help but glance over. Sam is twisting his wrists in the bonds harder, more desperate. "I was unfaithful. A thousand times, in my heart, I cheated her."

~*~*~

It takes Dean another two hours of searching and he's kicking himself for not figuring it out sooner. Nearly twenty years, it's taken this girl's unsettled spirit to become vengeful. Almost two decades of being dead, of watching the living mourn and wail over the graves of their loved ones. This girl who put an end to it all after her father died, who took a blade to her wrists because she couldn't handle the loss. If she hadn't juiced Sam up with her craziness, Dean would almost feel bad for her.

Some selfish, angry part of Dean has wanted to knock Sam out again, the way he's been muttering and cursing and whining about his dead girlfriend for over two fucking hours, but he's thinking now that it's good thing he didn't. He just let the words pour over him, Sam vacillating between blaming Dean and blaming himself for the way she died, the fact that she died without Sam's loyalty. It's nothing Dean hasn't thought himself, so he ignored it the best he could and kept searching for the monster to conquer.

With the location of the girl's plot carefully memorized, Dean loads his shotgun with salt rounds, pockets a handful of shells, liter fluid and a canister of salt. Things would run smoother if he could just leave Sam here and take care of the ghost himself, but he's afraid of what might happen to Sam all alone. He's good at tying knots, but then, Sam's always been good at slipping them, so it's not a chance he can risk taking right now. Instead, he cuts the bindings from Sam's feet and begins the arduous process of wrangling his struggling brother down to the car.

When the rain started in, a few hours ago, Dean had been frustrated. It'll make it that much harder to dig up the bones, with the ground wet. Not to mention catching the fire. But it might just work a little in their favor. With this kind of weather, the security at the cemetery should be light to non-existent.

All those years ago, when Sam and Dean had snuck into the cemetery for shits and giggles, a little too buzzed on cheap vodka and bored from nights on end in their crappy duplex, they'd slipped through a hole in the fence. That's where Dean takes them now. He brought the bolt cutters just in case, but the gap is still cut open, or cut open again. It's only a week past Halloween, which means some of the local teens had probably done a little carousing of their own recently.

The rain is coming down harder, slicking the ground with mud, makes it easier for Dean to shove Sam under the hole in the fence. He's not gentle about it either, forces Sam down to his knees and chest, hands bound behind his back. Dean plants his boot on Sam's ass and pushes brutally, "Move, asshole. Get in there."

Sam wriggles forward, just to get away from Dean's managing, spitting and snarling obscenities. "Fuck you, you fucking bastard. Untie me!"

It's the only time Sam trying to get away from him has ever worked in Dean's favor, it gets his brother through the gap in the fence. Dean throws his shovel and shotgun in ahead of him and crawls through the gap, rainwater stinging his eyes.

The journey through the graveyard sucks beyond the telling, both of them slipping and sliding over wet leaves. Sam breaks Dean's hold three times and has to be chased down. On the third try, Sam tackles Dean into the base of a cherub statue. His shoulder screams in pain, but he bites it back and snatches Sam by the hair like he's scruffing an annoying puppy. He leads his brother in that demeaning manner and doesn't feel the least bit bad about it.

Dean gets lost looking for the right grave, but finally, _finally_ he finds it. Totally beyond being gentle, frantic to have this done, Dean sweeps Sam's feet from under him. Sam goes down heavy in the sodden grass.

"Don't fucking move," Dean demands and gets to work digging up the grave.

Maybe he's too tired, maybe he's too miserable, but Sam stays where Dean put him, just presses his face to the ground like he's trying to drown himself in it. Before Dean is five or six shovels in, the ghost appears.

"It won't help, you know," she tells Dean from her perch on the headstone.

Dean shoots her, just on principle, then goes back to his digging.

"Dig and dig and dig," the girl taunts him, circling the grave. "The hole gets deeper, but what's the point? Burn me up and he'll still want to die."

"Shut up, bitch!" Dean snarls, hefts his shotgun and blasts her in the chest. She dissipates and Dean goes back to shoveling furiously, teeth gritted. The soil is too heavy with water, pulling his injured shoulder. Rain is pouring down in waves, blinding him, freezing him through, but he _has_ to do this. Doesn't have the slightest clue how he'll get the fire to catch once the grave is open and Sam's a second away from swallowing his own tongue or careening headfirst into a grave marker.

The girl reappears right at Dean's shoulder, "Not _you_ though. You have _him_ to live for. When he's gone, you'll be able to crumble. Just think of it, the peace of oblivion. You'll follow him, like you always do."

Dean keeps digging, the truth of her words slinking into him, the miserable frustration strangling out a desperate grunt. She's just taunting him, can't touch him because he doesn't want to die, but he _will_ , if Sammy goes, he'll want to die.

"No!" A shout that's not Dean's, rough and rumbled to the left side of him. "No!"

And he turns to see Sam, shoulders straining right before he slips the knots Dean tied him in, wrists raw and bloodied. A bolt of horror goes through Dean, because Sam is free now and Dean doesn't know if he has the strength to wrestle him away from the brink again. But it becomes a non-issue when Sam jolts forward, tackles him into the slight hollow he's made of the grave.

Dean goes down hard, shovel handle hitting his ribs and Sam breaking over him like a crashing wave. He expects a punch or a kick, but it's a kiss hard enough to bruise, teeth cutting his lips tender and bloody. A gasp of shock has Dean's jaw unhinged and Sam's tongue slides right in, slick and possessive.

"Oh, _yes_." Dean vaguely hears the ghost hiss, nearly drowned out in a flood of woozy sensation, Sam all over him and in him. "Now _there's_ something to live for."

If she keeps talking, Dean doesn't hear her, fallen splayed under Sam and his urgency. Head all dizzy, no air from the steady crush of Sam's mouth, the erratic thrusts of his hips. Sam pins Dean's wrists to the ground, shoulder screaming in pain, but no way he can care while Sam ruts against him.

Sam's mouth breaks away and they suck gasping air against each other's lips. Forehead to forehead, Dean is sheltered from the rain by Sam, wet clinging hair falling around his face. "Don't die, don't die for me," he thinks Sam is mumbling. It doesn't make sense when it was Sam trying to off himself, but sense is not something Dean is interested in making. Not now.

One of Dean's wrists is freed when Sam snakes a hand between them, the sharp pain in his shoulder dulls and Dean just uses his free hand to cling to Sam's sodden jacket. The kissing resumes, less urgent, more lingering, but still filthy. Sam fumbles open his fly first, then goes to work on Dean's. The air is cold and damp, but Dean is hot and hard from just a little tongue-fucking. It's always been this way with Sam, going from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.

When Sam gets his massive hand curled around them both, it's bliss. The tight clutch is nice, but it's the rigid length of Sam's cock pressed to his that has Dean's eyes rolling back. The shallow pit they're lying in is filling with water, Dean's boot heels sliding in the mud and it's nothing to the way Sam's fucking against him. They could drown here together and Dean wouldn't notice, not with Sam's fist and cock and mouth undoing him so utterly.

Dean releases his grip on Sam's jacket and slaps his hand down on his ass, feels the bunching muscles shift with each roll of his hips. Dean is desperate, but rag-doll pliant to Sam's demands. It's all about that bruising grasp on his pinned wrist, the lolling lick of Sam's tongue in Dean's mouth and that incredible slide of Sam's hard, wet dick in the loop of his fingers.

One of Dean's legs hooks around Sam's thighs, not urging, just holding on under the restless rhythm. As Sam gets closer and closer, he can't kiss anymore, just holds his mouth open against Dean's and makes these hurt sounds until they become, "dean-dean-dean."

With three hard thrusts, Dean's back slides through the mud, water lapping around his cheeks and Sam spilling hot between them. He feels Sam's flesh twitch and swell against his own, the splash of come against his ridge and Dean is done for. With a shout, he follows Sam over, a long and intense orgasm that snaps his hips and has him shooting over and over. It's not even close to pleasure really, it's just release, a deep yawning release that's four years past due.

They come down from the rush, trembling and clutching at each other. Sam buries his face in Dean's neck and silently cries. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, almost mist, but it still stings Dean's eyes as he peers cautiously around them. The ghost is gone, satisfied by their satisfaction. Dean's half submerged in a giant, earthy puddle, soaked through, but he won't move Sam until he's ready.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers in Dean's ear.

What can Dean say to that? He's got nothing, so he just smoothes the wet hair clinging to the side of Sam's face away, pets his brother gently and ignores the flush of shame that always accompanies tenderness.

They don't even try to finish the salt and burn after. Everything is too waterlogged, them included. Instead they silently put themselves back together, gather their things and leave. Dean will call Caleb when they get back to the hotel, have him put another hunter on it, to roast the bitch after he and Sam are long gone.

Things are still broken with them and it's likely they'll never be fixed. Sam will never want to want Dean, Dean will never know how to want anything else.

~*~*~

Just hours out of Ohio, Impala burning up the Kentucky back-roads, Dean hums along with "Surrealistic Pillow", realizes they're just driving. Sam sits quiet in the passenger seat, watches Dean and doesn't pretend he's not.

(End)


	7. rise like an ember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like Sam is seeing him for the first time, even if he's seen him a thousand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Everybody Here Wants You" by Jeff Buckley, sort of the theme song to this story.

Things aren't quite how they used to be. Sam and Dean roam from town to town and state to state, one hunt after another, always moving and never slowing. Before Sam left, they'd take breaks, settle in places long enough for them to finish a semester of school. Almost always in little nothing townships, these hidden nowhere places nestled down in the vast expanse of America. They'd traipse into town, keep their heads down, but they were never overlooked, good-looking boys in second-hand clothes. It got them attention they didn't need, but Dad never liked to stop them in the bigger towns and cities, didn't trust how unpredictable the crowds could be. So, with everyone seeing, and them stationary and trying to blend, Sam and Dean mostly kept to themselves in those days. 

These days, they can afford to be a little flashier. In fact, it helps with a lot of their cases, coming in as FBI or CDC or newspaper reporters. People won't trust a nobody drifter, but give them a name they recognize, a profession they respect and it's like they are opening up to an old friend. 

Dean is more comfortable with the attention than Sam is, there's something in him that flourishes under scrutiny, this look-at-me swagger he never felt right about stifling. It's maybe one of the few things Dean has disagreed with their dad about. People like to look at Dean and it's no mystery why, but Dad and Sam were never happy with the way Dean could get eyes swiveling his way, not when they needed to sneak in under the radar. It was always like having a gun he couldn't shoot, a tool under lock and key, only popped open in case of emergency. 

Sometimes though, Dean takes it too far. He gets a little drunk off the freedom to use it, no Dad to rein him in and it's far too easy to brush off Sam's words of caution, especially when his brother is his most captive audience. 

They're in Mississippi, fresh off a hunt that has Dean's adrenaline pumping, the pride of a job well done flushing him happy. It's been over a month since Ohio and Sam hasn't touched him since, so Dean gets to performing in a wood-and-nails bar by the river. There's country-rock playing on the jukebox and a flood of blonde-haired girls in mini jean skirts, every one of them looking like a sure thing under the dazzle of Dean's mega-watt smile. 

Dean is four beers in, pockets bulging with a wad of cash he took off some hicks at the pool table, a pretty thing named Crystal Lyn hanging off his every word. Sam is watching him from the other end of the bar, but that's all he's done for thirty-four days and counting, so Dean feels justified in taking this sweet thing out back for a playful tumble when a meaty hand comes falling heavy on his shoulder. 

The hand pushes Dean around, and he falls into the momentum smoothly, twisting with a smirk fixed on his lips. The owner of the hand that's three seconds away from getting broken is one of the good-ol'-boys Dean just wiped the table with. He's a bulky, hulking guy with a messy beard and flannel over-shirt, taller than Dean but falling just short of Sam's height. "What's up, big fella?" Dean asks, all friendly, no danger here. 

"You can hustle me, asshole, but keep your game away from my sister," the guy growls, getting all up in Dean's personal space. 

"Jesus, Ken!" Crystal Lyn butts in, voice smoky-high and just a little drunk slurred. "Mind your own business."

"You are my business, Crys," Ken responds to his sister without taking his narrowed eyes off of Dean's face. "And I'm not gonna let you get played by some pretty boy hustler."

"Take your hand off me, Ken," Dean warns, voice still on the wrong side of playful, like a friendly warning between old buddies. 

Ken's beady, brown eyes narrow further, glinting with aggression as his grip on Dean's shoulder tightens. "Why don't you make me, pretty boy?"

Dean shrugs casually, a you-asked-for-it gesture before he brings his fist up hard and sure. Knuckles glance off of ribs and Ken's hand falls away from the shock of pain as he doubles up. 

After that, it's on. Ken's group of drinking buddies were watching the whole thing go down and Dean has one of them on him in a second. Vaguely, Dean registers Crystal Lyn letting loose a surprised squeal and stumbling backwards on her high heeled boots. 

A wave of violence rises up around Dean in a blur of flannel and thick-knuckled fists. Like Dean summoned him out of the ether, Sam is there with him, a solid wall of muscle placed between Dean and three of his attackers while Dean takes on Ken and another one. 

In the end, the meatheads get a few good hits in, but Sam and Dean are the last men standing. Every eye in the bar is on them both now, a spectacle of bleeding, sweating stranger. Another couple of guys are looking like they're mustering up the courage to have a go, but Sam notices the bartender is on the phone, probably to the cops and grabs Dean by the jacket collar to haul him out of the bar. 

Out in the gravel lot, Sam doesn't relent his grip on Dean, just drags him along like a recalcitrant child. "Jesus, Dean!" he growls furiously, practically tossing Dean into the driver side door of the Impala. "You just can't fucking help yourself, can you?!"

Dean's knuckles are bleeding and aching, his hand shaking a little so the keys make a tickling jingle when he pulls them from his pocket. "Hey, I didn't start that shit," he immediately defends. 

Throwing himself in behind the wheel, Dean briefly considers not unlocking Sam's door and leaving him there. It's not even really a question, he's never been so petty when it comes to Sam, but the little bitch's attitude makes it an attractive prospect. 

"Oh, no, you never start it, do you?!" Sam goes on snidely, slamming the passenger door behind him. Dean would punch him for that if his hand weren't already so damned sore. Might revisit the notion once they get the hell out of dodge. "You just strut around like the fucking cock of the walk and practically dare everyone to start it for you."

"Well, if it's such a fucking hardship for you to have my back, next time don't bother," Dean spits back, throwing the car into gear and peeling out in a spray of gravel. His irritation has him driving far too fast, but it's best to get out quick anyway. 

"Oh, so next time I should just let you get your ass kicked?"

"Hey, I coulda taken them without your help, asshole."

Sam's mouth opens to respond, Dean sees it from the corner of his eye, but his brother chokes whatever he was going say back. Sam's eyes are still narrowed in anger, but he twists around to stare daggers at the windshield. "Whatever, Dean. No matter how wrong you are, you'll never admit it, so there's no point arguing about it."

Sometimes, when Sam speaks to Dean, about Dean and his many flaws, Sam's voice gets this tinge of utter disdain. Like Sam can't think of anything more offensive than Dean. Like Dean is the fucking bane of Sam's existence. It infects Dean with dueling urges to hit something and to cry. Since the latter is an absolutely unacceptable reaction, Dean lashes out, punching the dashboard in front of him twice. 

Dean's already split knuckles open further, sting something fierce, so he pulls his hand up against his chest with a hiss and cradles it there. 

"Damn it, Dean," Sam sighs and reaches over, but Dean slaps his hand away. 

"Fuck you, Sam."

Sam sighs again and slumps against the car door in defeat. Dean thinks if he looked over at his brother, he'd probably look a little apologetic, maybe a little defensive all the same. Sam thinks he's totally justified in thinking the way he does about Dean, and maybe he is, but that does nothing to alleviate the sting. Dean is who he is, if he could've changed any of that for Sam, he'd have done it years ago. 

The rest of the ride goes by in relative silence. Dean breathes a little heavy through the pain in his hand and the various bruises he picked up in the bar fight, but Sam stays silent as the grave. 

Once they make it back to the hotel room, this wretched box with loud wallpaper and clashing bedspreads, Dean is more than happy to keep things quiet. He doesn't have the emotional energy to hear again how much of a pain in the ass he is.

Sam shrugs out of his jacket and throws it over a chair, says, "I'm gonna go get ice for your hand. Dig up the first aid kit, okay?"

He doesn't wait for Dean to respond. There's this childish urge to ignore Sam, but Dean takes one look at his hand and admits that it needs to be cleaned and bandaged. They're just a little bruised and shredded, not broken, but some of those cuts he got on a misplaced blow to Ken's teeth. Since the human mouth is filthy, an antibacterial ointment will be needed. 

They keep the first aid kit in the weapons bag, which is heavy as shit from all the guns and blades they haul around. When Dean leans down to hoist it to the bed, the weight pulls at another injury in Dean's back. He gasps at the sharp ache and rotates his left arm to test the extent of the injury. Right now it's not so bad, but Dean's betting it'll be worse tomorrow. 

After pulling the first aid kit out, Dean gingerly slips out of his coat and drags his t-shirt off. He's examining a fist-sized bruise on his back in the vanity when Sam comes back into the room. It's right above his kidney, an inch or two lower and that blow would have dropped Dean. As it was, with the adrenaline of the fight fueling him, Dean had barely felt it. 

Past Dean's reflection, Sam is stalling in the open doorway, eyes dark and caught on Dean's bared torso. Caught staring, Sam clears his throat awkwardly and slips back in the room, snicking the door closed and throwing the deadbolt. "Gonna have a pretty nasty bruise tomorrow," he says to break the tense silence. 

"Thanks for the diagnosis, doc," Dean mutters, but the intended sarcasm doesn't come through. He fights the ridiculous urge to hug his arms around his naked chest. 

When Sam turns back around to look at him, there's a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. It's a barely-there thing, clearing any heat or irritation from Sam's expression. It's almost…gentle. "Come on, stupid," Sam responds. "Let me clean that hand up."

Dean didn't notice it before, but the room is a little chilly. A rash of goosebumps dance their way over Dean's bare skin, his nipples perk up flushed and pink. "I can do it," Dean points out, but wanders over to his bed where he laid out the first aid supplies, perches on the edge of the mattress. 

"I know," Sam says with a nod, moves over to place the ice bucket on the nightstand. "Let me do it anyway."

Dean would never say it, but he always likes it better when Sam takes care of his cuts and bruises anyway. There are so few times they can easily express their affection for each other. After   
Sam left for Stanford, Dean never felt the loss of him so much as when he was hurt or sick, left alone to care for himself. He never does it as good as Sam anyway. 

Sam goes into the bathroom and returns with a couple of hand-towels and a plastic Dixie cup of tap water. Dean takes the cup from Sam when he pushes it at him. "Here," Sam says, shaking a couple of Tylenol into his palm and passing them off.

The first aid supplies are in a messy pile on the bed, fallen out of their case when Dean chucked it carelessly away after finding it. Sam's sort of OCD about things though, so he seats himself on the bed beside Dean and lines every item up in the order he'll want to use them. Alcohol pads, Neosporin tube, gauze, all in a tidy little row. 

Sam keeps his head tilted down, watching his hands as he tears open the foil packet on the alcohol pad. It's one of those single serving things, like a wet nap, but reeking strongly of a sharp antiseptic scent. "You really don't know, do you?" Sam asks, voice low and gruff as he reaches for Dean's injured hand. 

For a moment, Dean is a little distracted by the feel of Sam's cool fingers on him. They're just slightly damp from Sam washing them in the bathroom and not fully drying them off. "Know what?" he finally questions back thoughtlessly. 

"What you _do_ to people," Sam answers. "How crazy you make them."

Before Dean can say anything back, Sam dabs his cut knuckles with the alcohol pad and any words get choked up on a tight hiss of pain. He fights the urge to tighten his fist, the broad width of Sam's palm keeping his fingers splayed open.

"It not just how amazing you look," Sam continues while he gently prods at Dean's abused skin. His voice is pitched low, like he's whispering secrets at Dean. It reminds Dean of how they used to talk into the night when they were supposed to be sleeping, quiet as they could so Dad wouldn't hear and rag on them for being up when they had drills to run in the early morning. 

"That's a big part of it." Sam keeps going, having his one-sided conversation and neither of them are looking at each other. Instead they watch Sam work. "But it's also the way you speak. The way you move."

Sam opens the Neosporin bottle and squeezes a fat drop of the gooey stuff onto a cotton pad. Sam never uses his fingers on the tube, thinks it leaves behind germs. Dean is completely fascinated, by Sam's words, by the slow, confident way Sam's fingers move. In the back of his mind, he registers that his mouth has gone slack and completely dry.

"Like you know _exactly_ what you're doing to everyone," Sam rasps out. He daubs at Dean's cuts, going down the row, one by one. "Like that fight-or-fuck instinct you provoke in everyone is completely intentional. Like…like you think it's funny or something."

There should be something to say back to that, but Dean's mouth is working helplessly. Any words he might have get stuck on the back of his brain, snagged up lamely around 'fight-or-fuck'. There's a shiny, greasy streak of wetness coating the reddened skin of his knuckles and Dean just stares at it. 

"People either want to kiss you or kick you, Dean. There's no in between." Sam's head is still tilted down, hair shading his eyes. "I'm just worried that one day, someone's really going to hurt you."

Neither one of them says a thing while Sam wraps a long strip of gauze around Dean's hand. He ties it off under the base of Dean's pinky, a small tight knot that Dean won't be able to fiddle open when he's bored. It'll have to be cut off. 

Dean's thinking of everything Sam just said while Sam fills a Ziploc baggy with ice from the bucket. "So, which is it for you?" Dean surprises himself by asking. "Kiss or kick?"

Sam doesn't answer right away, wraps the ice pack in a hand towel and eases it gently onto Dean's hand. "Six of one, half dozen of the other."

Dean's pretty all right with Sam's answer, it's better than what he was hoping for. Most of the time, Sam looks like he's a second away from cold cocking him. If even half that time, Sam would rather be kissing him, that's a win in Dean's book. Hell, Dean loves Sam more than anything, but even _he_ spends a good portion of time wanting to smack the little brat around. Maybe violence really does go hand in hand with love.

"Turn around," Sam urges, prodding Dean's thigh with his knee. Without much thought, Dean complies, twisting his back to Sam. He smells the Icy Hot right before he feels Sam's fingers smooth over the bruise blooming on his back. 

Dean bites his lip on a gasp, heart rate kicking up a little as Sam scootches closer to him, rubs his fingers into Dean's aching muscle in slow circles. When he feels a gust of hot breath against his neck, Dean finally lets a small sound loose, just a harsh sigh. " _Damn_. I missed your freckles," Sam whispers, small quiet confession breathed over Dean's skin. 

The feel of Sam's hand flattening on him, curving around his ribs, has Dean's eyes falling blissfully closed, icepack falling from his limp fingers. Already his skin is prickling, a lowdown coil of heat blooming in his belly. "Can I?" Sam asks, nosing down the line of Dean's neck, pressing a dry kiss into the curve of his shoulder. 

A huff like a laugh bursts from Dean, like there could be any answer but 'yes'. Dean doesn't answer though, just closes his eyes and tips back into Sam. He tilts his head to the side, opening the line of his throat in an invitation for kisses that Sam accepts. The next one is wetter and open, hotter and it sends a flash of wild sensation all through Dean's body. 

It's a little awkward, the way they're both sitting on the edge of the bed, but Sam is angling closer, hands skimming around Dean's waist to roam over his chest and belly. Dean's already hard, but not in an urgent, must-fuck-now sort of way, just this leisurely build up like Dean can't remember them ever having _before_. And Sam's still kissing his neck and shoulders, sometimes just rubbing his lips back and forth in certain spots, scratching lightly with his teeth. Sam's tasting Dean, tongue sneaking out in short licks before each kiss. It feels so _good_. Dean can't think for how good it feels.

Sam presses his face into the hair at the back of Dean's neck, hums and breathes deep. His hands stop their stroking, cup warmly around Dean's ribcage. "Come on," he says, warm breath puffing against Dean's scalp. 

And then Sam is standing, taking Dean's hand and urging him up. Dean doesn't want go. They're on a bed and he wants to make use of it, but Sam isn't meeting his eye. He just tugs at Dean's hand again, hair falling in a slash over the slant of his cheekbone, miles and miles higher than Dean. But Sam wants this, so Dean rises and follows, hand still caught in Sam's. 

They don't go far, just around the foot of Dean's bed, stopping at that narrow space between the two queens. Sam's bed is made perfectly, bedspread pulled taut over the edges and Sam stops them next to it. It makes some sense now, Sam's bed blissfully empty while Dean's is cluttered up. Used to be, if Sam wanted Dean, he would clear off any surface with an impatient swipe and get to business, but this isn't anything like how it used to be. It feels premeditated. 

Dean notices in the warm, yellow light from the bedside table that there's a bruise blooming on Sam's jaw, so he wasn't the only one who took a few hits tonight. He doesn't get to worry about it too much before Sam is swooping in, catching his mouth in a kiss. It's one just as greedy as all the rest, Sam opening him up, sliding his tongue home and making Dean's mouth his own. 

The kiss is long and slick, makes Dean waver and sway into Sam's hands, dizzy and neck aching from tipping his head back. After a while though, Sam's mouth strays from Dean's, sliding along his jaw, nipping and sucking at Dean's ear. "Dean," Sam whispers right there. Nothing more, just Dean's name on Sam's lips, like that's all there is left to say. 

"Sammy," Dean answers back, all hazy and dim. 

Sam goes to undressing Dean first, slipping open his fly fast and smooth, kneeling at Dean's feet to untie his boots. And when he's done, Sam stays there a second, looks up Dean's naked body with hooded eyes, looks up shamelessly and greedily. It's like Sam is seeing him for the first time, even if he's seen him a thousand.

Rising up again, Sam kicks his shoes off, eyes never quite meeting Dean's, but grazing every other part of him. When Sam's shirt comes off, Dean stares at all the new muscle, bulkier and sleeker and only getting bigger with each passing day. His pants come off next, now naked as Dean, long, thick cock heavy and flushed and straining towards Dean. 

While Dean's distracted, Sam slips back in, pressing a short, closed-mouth kiss to his lips. "Turn around," Sam says against his lips. 

So, Dean goes at Sam's urging, kneeing up on the mattress, down in the middle with the press of Sam's hand at the center of his back. Sam crawls in after, waits until Dean is flush to the bed, stiff cock trapped between his belly and the too-scratchy material, but then he's all over Dean. Sam pins him completely under him, long lines of smooth skin plastered against Dean. Sam's cock slots right in between Dean's cheeks, hard and real, not something dreamed up in some fever dream after too long sitting only inches away from each other. When Dean moans, it sounds like a sob.

"Shhh," Sam coos in his ear, churning his hips all slow and gritty, just working the length of his shaft in tighter, closer, deeper. "Gonna take care of you now." 

For a few moments, it like Dean can't breathe. He's panting into the mattress, the crown of his head shoved up under the pillows. Sam's hands and lips go to work soothing him, all over him, hips still grinding in easy circles. Dean tries to spread his thighs, get Sam slotted between them, but Sam's knees are locking them tightly closed. 

"You used to open up so pretty for me, Dean," Sam whispers to Dean, lips at his ear, hands circling his wrists to pin them to the bed. "Gonna open you up real slow, okay? Get you nice and loose and easy so I'll just slide right in."

When Sam broke in the graveyard and jerked them off all desperate and scared, Dean got it. It's how they always did it, let it build and build until the tension snapped and they were fucking against each other all lost and sloppy, it was always good though, always necessary. But _this_ , this syrupy crawl, Sam sliding lips and hands down and down, over Dean's shoulders and back, snuffling into Dean's hairline, it's not something Dean has any experience with. 

Sam's tongue slots into the dip of Dean's spine and starts a path all the way down, doesn't stop until the slick tip notches into Dean's crack. It jars Dean, a crazy strong shudder going all through him. Sam follows up with a quick nipping kiss to the rise of each cheek, covers each curve of flesh with those huge fucking hands of his and spreads. 

"Sam," Dean chokes in surprise, muffled into the shadow place between the bed and pillow. He's had his face hidden this whole time, but it doesn't seem to matter much. It's not Dean's face Sam is preoccupied with, it's his ass.

A long sigh is breathed into Dean, gusting hotly against his hole and making it jolt and twitch desperately. It's been so long, Dean never let anyone but Sam in him and he's aching for it. The hands gripping him splay and tighten, squeezing the mounds of his ass-cheeks like he's being tested for flexibility and endurance. "Jesus, Dean," Sam murmurs, something close to reverence in his voice. "Your ass is so perfect, never seen anything so fucking sweet, baby."

One swipe, one mind-blowing, brain-melting, searing swipe of wet tongue against his hole has Dean is arching up, keening and groping sloppily at the bedspread. Just _one_ is enough to make his cock go from hard to desperately eager, full and wet against his belly, he must be fucking purple by now. "You like that, huh?" Sam rumbles evilly, teasing again with the pointed tip. "Want me to get my tongue in your pretty, little hole, Dean?"

Jesus, fuck, Dean's higher brain functions have completely short-circuited. Sam was always a bit of a talker, took to it real quick, liked to throw around the word 'baby' a lot, which Dean finds a little ridiculous and a lot blindingly _hot_. "Think I could make you come on just my tongue, baby?"

It's gotten filthier, this sex-rambling thing that Sam does, and Dean can't really _complain_ , but he wonders where it came from. Did he talk this way to Jess? Dean shuts that thought right the fuck down, not much choice anyway since Sam's finally letting loose on him. And this is something new too, because Sam never, ever licked at Dean's asshole like it was covered in chocolate fucking syrup, but he's doing it now. 

There's something so nasty about it that Dean's stomach is clenched tight with shame, his eyes clenched up against the sensations zinging through him. Sam's tongue is all slick and wriggling and swirling, easing just the tip inside. Sam shoves Dean's legs wide open, so far he feels his joints complain from it. A trail of warmth flows down over Dean's balls, Sam's spit, Sam makes such a wet mess of him that it's coming down in streams. The long, low moan that rises out of Dean is half-thrilled and half-horrified by that particular flavor of fucked-up. 

It feels crazy amazing, but Dean's still tense enough that Sam isn't making much progress with opening him. Sam's massive hands are still splayed over Dean's spread cheeks, so he just has to shift them a little, get the tips of his thumbs in on the action. One of them breaches him to the first knuckle, twists and turns to ease the muscle. And then another is in him, Sam's thumbs thick enough to make the stretch burn and Dean hiss. 

"That's it," Sam groans. "Just relax for me, Dean." 

Sam's thumbs pull, they fucking _pull_ his hole open. "Son of a bitch!" Dean shouts through the sudden flow of pain, punches the mattress. But before Dean can buck Sam off him and kick his ass for that dick move, the thumbs are popped back out and Sam's tongue is sliding right up and in. All the way in, thick and squirming and so wet it eases the sting. Sam's tongue is so far inside that Dean feels the scrape of his teeth. 

A flick of tongue has Dean's eyes rolling back, has him punching the mattress again, but this time it's from bone-melting pleasure. That clever muscle is in Dean, heating him up from the inside out, doing everything that Dean's own does when he's eating a chick out. It's not as wet or easy, but Sam's a trooper, a stubborn bastard who must be unhinging his jaw for how he keeps it up. It's not long enough to actually hit Dean's prostate, but that doesn't seem to be much of an issue. 

The first time Dean humps back against Sam's face, his cock-teasing brother pulls back, pulls out. "Fuck!" Dean complains, muffled into the bedding. "Fuck, _please_."

Sam flicks and tickles around Dean's rim, dips back in a bit, and in again until there's a slow rhythm fucking into him. There's drool fucking everywhere now and Sam is slurping through it noisily and nastily. On the next thrust of tongue, a finger joins the mix, slotted in smooth and easy. Then another finger, two digits deep and Sam licking all around them. The fingers are long enough and hit Dean's prostate, like Sam never lost the roadmap to all of Dean's pleasure centers, like he fucking memorized it. 

"There we go," Sam hums with dark satisfaction. The fucker wipes his sloppy wet mouth off on Dean's ass-cheek, day-old stubble scraping the sensitive, hyper-aware skin. 

Dean sort of forgot how debased he always managed to feel whenever he was like this with Sammy. Even on those rare occasions that Dean topped, Sam managed to make him feel like a lesser creature. Dean sort of forgot how much he liked it, how Sam would take everything till there was nothing left over for Dean but the plunging swoop of shameful need. Sam's doing it again, breaking Dean's pride down with biting kisses, three fingers fucking him and a string of filthy words. 

"Fuck, Dean, look at you. Look how you take it for me. So fucking slutty, Dean, just writhing on my fingers like that. Made for this, weren't you? Tell me, baby, tell me what you want. You wanna come on my fingers? Think you can?"

Dean's scrabbling at the bedspread, fisting it up and trying to push himself onto his knees. Sam isn't letting him, just keeps shoving him back down and screwing his fingers deeper and harder. "No!" Dean gets out. "No, please, want you to fuck me."

Sam's free hand glides up and over the tight bow of Dean's spine with this soothing ease, this light gentling caress that has the fine hairs on Dean's body rising like they've been shocked. "Anything," Sam tells him, rising and flowing up over Dean, peppering his neck and shoulders with soft, butterfly kisses. "Anything you want. Any time you want it."

The fingers inside him slide out with a sickening squelch, through the spit Sam drooled into Dean. The muscles of his jaw ache under the force of Dean's grimace, but his belly is tight with want, his cock stiff and pulsing to the beat of his heart. Sam was down there with his mouth on Dean's fucking _ass_ , which is the filthiest and nastiest thing anyone's ever done to give him pleasure. Sam did that for him. Sam says he'll do _anything_. It feels like a lie, but if it is, it's a pretty one that Dean will revel in until he can't fool himself any longer. 

Sam doesn't tease or stall, like Dean finally said the magic word, he just guides himself there and slides right in, all the way in one easy glide. It's been long enough for Dean that it should hurt, but there's just the barest stretch and sting, Dean all loose and open from wanting. And it fills him so fucking good, Sam long and thick, bigger than Dean remembers. 

"Dean," Sam sighs against his neck. " _God_ , Dean. You feel so good, always so good."

Now that Sam's in him, he just stays there, solid and immovable, just soaking up the feel of Dean around him. And Dean knows it's tight, can feel the way he's clamping down and can't for the life of him figure out how Sam can sit still for it. It goes like that for a moment that feels like hours to Dean, Sam breathing heavily into his neck, blanketing Dean in the sweltering heat of his body. 

When Sam finally moves, it makes Dean jerk and cry out, but he's not thrusting yet, just a shift onto his knees. Sam grabs a pillow, hoists Dean with an arm around the waist and shoves it under Dean's pelvis. The cushion is softer and more forgiving on Dean's needy cock, hugs him in this really lovely way when Sam finally starts to rock against him. 

Dean doesn't think he's opened his eyes for what feels like an hour, just clenches them so tightly closed that little bursts of color are starting to bloom and dance over the backdrop of his lids. It's all making him dizzy, shivery in his own skin, caught up completely on the sensation of the slow, short slides of Sam riding him, back and forth, back and forth. 

Sam starts talking again, all low and intimate and Dean hates him a little for still having the ability to think when Dean is practically incoherent with want. "You always wait for me to break. S'not fair, Dean, not when you can have it any time. Know you want it too, you don't have to be such a fucking tease all the time."

"Jesus, Sam!" Dean growls in frustration. Even while they're fucking Sam has to talk a thing to death. "Shut up and fuck me already."

To punctuate his point, Dean gets his arms under him and pushes back hard, bucks into Sam with a dirty swivel to his hips. That gets Sam pulling out and slamming back in retaliation. It hits Dean hard in the prostate and makes his cock jerk against the pillow. And that's what starts it, Dean pushing back against Sam, Sam answering with a bone-rocking thrust. It's not smooth at all, more like they're working against each other, but it does something to Dean, gives him that competitive edge he gets when hunting or fighting. 

"Yeah," Sam grunts, rising to his knees, slapping Dean's hip before grasping it and dragging it into his next thrust. "Like that. Show me how you want it."

Fucking Sam and his fucking dirty mouth. It gets Dean all riled up, has him on his forearms and splaying his thighs as wide as he can and still have some leverage. Dean shoves himself onto Sam's cock, practically howls from the pain-pleasure of how good it's splitting him open. Each thrust pushes the breath from Dean's lungs, every pull back makes him gasp, because Sam is huge and drilling him completely mindless. 

They sync up just like that and it stops being a fight, becomes this desperate race to the finish. The drag of Sam moving in and out, skin catching friction ghosting over Dean's sweet spot in a burn of too much pleasure. Dean's cock has lost some of its pressure against the pillow, but it's just barely enough. Their skin is so slick with sweat now, Sam's clutching hands sliding wetly at Dean's flanks. Sam finally gets a good grip though, hooks his hands around the front of Dean's shoulders and pulling him into every bone-shaking push. 

There's this low whining keen rising out of Dean's tight throat, just audible over the sounds of their skin slapping together. Sam loses his grip on one of Dean's shoulders, slaps his palm against the mattress under him. "Shit, Dean, gonna- gonna come," Sam starts, then trails off in a mess of desperate swearing, thrusts going choppy and stilted. 

Like always, Dean hates for Sam to leave him behind, wants only to be right there with him, every time. So Dean quickly shoves his good hand down when Sam forces himself so deep that his hipbones grind against the rise of Dean's ass. At the first pulse of Sam coming, Dean gets a clumsy grip on his dick, but it's more than enough. Dean spills hot and messy against the pillow, teeth gnashing and eyes tearing under each pulse. 

Sam is shuddering and twitching against Dean's back, breathing hot and heavy into his hair. He's shoved so far inside of Dean that he can't even feel the come slicking him up, not until Sam starts to soften a little, starts to slide a little easier with each stilted jerk of Sam's aftershocks. 

Dean falls flat to the mattress, pelvis squelching in the puddle of his come on the pillow. It's fucking sick and amazing and Dean feels like he just shot his brain out of his dick. Sam wavers over Dean, but pulls out and tips himself to the side so only half of his weight collapses against Dean's worn body. 

They lay there for a while, just catching their breath, Dean's rubbery limbs splayed all over the bed and Sam curled over him. Sam has one leg thrown over Dean's thighs, one arm crooked over Dean's back, face tilted into the space between Dean's head and shoulder. It's sort of like cuddling, Dean thinks, but he can't bring himself to complain just yet. 

His body is fucking done for, the ache in his ass making itself known, skin feeling all prickly with sweat and his injured hand complaining loudly. It's been such a long time since this has happened, so Dean lets himself feel the looseness of his fucked out hole, the way Sam's come is slowly trickling out. Dean sort of loves it and that just makes him feel like the worst kind of slut. 

"Dean?" Sam breaks the silence too soon, speaking right into Dean's ear. 

Dean just grunts a response. 

Sam swallows loud enough for Dean to hear him. When he answers his voice is raspy, like his throat is bone-dry. "I'm not gonna stop wanting you. There's no point pretending otherwise. Let's make a deal."

Dean twists his head a little, cracks one eye to look at his brother. When the blurry haze clears, Dean sees Sam still flushed and sweaty, hair curling all crazy around his face. His eyes are slitted and shining, watching Dean keenly. Dean just quirks his brow and waits for Sam to continue. 

"If you want to fuck around, you let me know. And I'll do the same. I'm sick and fucking tired of dancing around the subject."

Dean clears his throat and blinks, tries to stifle his swelling excitement at Sam's words. It's not going to be easier, knowing he can have Sam whenever he wants him. Hell, it'll probably be harder. But Dean's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, whatever the hell that means, so he just gives a short nod and says, "Okay." 

Sam's lips tip up in the barest of sad smiles. "Good," Sam says, but his tone suggests that he doesn't really think it is. Even still, Sam's hand slides slowly down Dean's back and he rubs a couple of fingertips at Dean's sore and messy hole. Dean sucks a breath between his teeth at the sting.

"You wanna take a shower with me?" Sam asks, tipping his head down to scrape his teeth against Dean's shoulder. 

The prospect of moving makes Dean groan, but he nods anyway. Gently, Sam turns Dean onto his back, huge hands gone all soft and easy, petting him in sweet slides. Long fingers find their way into Dean's hair and he sighs, lets his eyes slip shut right before Sam's lips touch his. The kiss is short and soft, but it feels like forgiveness and more than Dean could have ever hoped for.


End file.
